


Achilles Heel

by Gaylagher



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Season 5 Spoilers, alternate universe - season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaylagher/pseuds/Gaylagher
Summary: this is what i wished gallavich's plotline would be in seasons 6 and 7. because fuck those seasons, fuck mickey going to jail, fuck trevor and especially fuck caleb, fuck ian experimenting with a girl, fuck mickey being a fugitive, fuck mickey going to mexico, fuck the writers for fucking mickey over again, fuck john wells for letting it happen, and fuck everything that happened in those two seasons.





	1. 6x01 - Mickey

**Author's Note:**

> i obviously have pent up anger towards the show.
> 
> anyways, a couple of things: the italics are memories that either ian or mickey are thinking of. some of the memories are scenes in the show, others I've made up.
> 
> there will be both mickey's and ian's POV, so the "episodes" will be split into two chapters--one will be ian's POV and the other one will be mickey's.
> 
> this part is gonna be only focusing on season 6. if you want i'll make one for 7. 
> 
> enjoy.

_"This is it. This is you breaking up with me."_

_Ian let out a wet sniffle, dead emerald eyes scanning their shitty neighborhood. "Yeah."_

_Tears pricked Mickey's eyes, his boyfriend's--ex boyfriend--frame blurring, as Mickey watched him become a magnificent mixture of white and red. Ian was always magnificent. With his auburn hair falling on top of milky, freckled skin and bright emerald eyes the colour of grass, swirling with golden specks littering the orbs. Mickey didn't think that something so magnificent can hurt him as painfully as it was now. Ian was wielding a knife and dove it into Mickey's heart, ripping through the tender muscle and leaving a gaping hole behind. And it hurt. Not only in his chest but everywhere. It was a physical pain that no medicine could cure; it seeped into his bones and filled it with lead._

_The reason why Ian was dumping him contributed to the pain by a lot. Ian was dumping him for being a good boyfriend, for making him take his meds. Mickey had done so much for the redhead; he came out, and was immediately hurled into the foreign world of mental illnesses. And now, Ian's dumping him for it._

_Mickey never thought this would hurt. He never knew love existed before Ian. But the redhead had wormed his way under Mickey's skin, nestled himself in there and refused to get out, and Mickey fell in love. And now Ian had felt like the home he built out of Mickey's soul wasn't for him anymore, and he was leaving which made Mickey so empty._

_"Really?" Mickey had managed to choke out. All of his emotions was in that one little word; really? After everything they've been through? After everything Mickey has done for him? Ian looked at him with deadened eyes; eyes that used to hold so much love and awe for Mickey, all drained away. That one look confirmed that he really wanted this, that he wasn't in love anymore. "Fuck."_

_Mickey wanted to go to his room and never come out. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch Ian. He wanted to do so many different things but all he could do was stand there and will himself not to cry. He should've left. He should've went back to his house, locked his doors and never come out._

_"Mickey," a voice called. Mickey looked to his right and saw a petite blonde crazy bitch with a gun in her hand. Mickey swore his jaw had landed on the sidewalk. How the fuck is she alive?_

_"Holy shit," Mickey breathed. His pain gave way to shock as a chant of 'oh, fuck' echoed in his head._

_"Is that Sammi?" Ian inquired._

_"She's got a fucking gun," Mickey cursed. And he ran, ears ringing as the loud noise of gunshots reverberated along the neighborhood._

_He should've went home sooner._

The ride to the station was long and Mickey was reeling. Anger roared inside his chest and his eyes were blazing with infuriation. He should've left the bitch alone. The effort was wasted, and now he was single and going to federal prison.

The night before his trial, thoughts of the redhead seeping into his mind and clouding his thoughts. It erased the heaviness of his eyelids and left him staring at the underbelly of the top bunk in the grainy dark, thinking about how things would've turned out if he wasn't thinking with his heart.

"How do you plead?" the judge inquired, snapping Mickey out of his thoughts. Mickey numbly looked back at the judge; she was in her mid-fifties, with grey wisps combed over her head and hard, chestnut brown eyes. Mickey didn't care what his fate was.

"Innocent," Mickey answered. His lawyer had told him to plead Innocent. Like the judge would go easy on him.

"Your Honour," Mickey's lawyer said, "my client was falsely accused of murder. There is no proof that he had murdered, no finger prints, and no way to know for sure that he was the one who slipped her pills. We would have done an autopsy but the victim is alive, and was seen chasing my client with a gun."

The trial didn't last long. Mickey had zoned out. He didn't care if he was thrown in the can. He cared very little now. Especially when the one he cared about the most was ripped away from his arms. So Mickey was slightly startled when a cop had taken his handcuffs off. He was free to go.

He didn't feel relieved. He didn't feel happy. He didn't crack a smile when he saw Uncle Ronnie and Iggy. He couldn't. The corners of his mouth was stuck in a straight line.

His feet trudged into his room when he got home, and his eyes landed on the picture that he's kept; the picture of the redhead, a smirk on his lips and his middle finger up. His chartreuse eyes shone.

Mickey grabbed it off of where it was perched. His thumb gently stroked the picture, and traced the creases of the picture. Irritation inflated his gut and his fingers touched the top of the picture, twisting the paper slightly, about to rip it.

But he wasn't able to.

Fuck.

Instead, he safely hid it somewhere because no matter what he could never let go of that picture. He could never let go of Ian. Ian could probably wrap his stringy fingers around Mickey's neck and choke him and Mickey would probably think that he was still the most amazing thing to ever grace this horrible world. Mickey reminded himself with a curt laugh that that's already happened.

Mickey sat on the bed and he finally let all those emotions he was swallowing in jail to bubble over and release itself in the form of tears. So he cried and cried and cried until his eyes hurt, his nose was leaking snot, and until his waterfall ran dry.

And then he blankly stared at the dirty floor, heart ripping into pieces and mind filling with one word.

Ian.

 

***************

 

Heartbreak had manifested itself in different ways. Sometimes it was sadness. Other times, it was anger. Either way it always left Mickey's eyes wet.

Mickey would see the redhead from afar--talking to his brother or getting the mail. He wouldn't call attention to himself. He wasn't ready to talk to Ian. Not because he was afraid he was going to cry, but because he didn't want to talk to him.

What would he say? "You broke my heart"? "I almost was a felon because of you"? Those were mean. And Mickey hated it. He hated how he cared about the freckled man's feelings more than his own and he hated Ian.

That was a lie. He couldn't hate Ian. The redhead could run over Mickey's heart and Mickey would still love him with his battered muscle. He hated that.

Of course, he's had crushes on people before. But they were sexual more than anything. That was how he felt for the redhead when they started fucking, but the more the redhead came around, the more Mickey wanted him to stay longer. And that snowballed into love.

Mickey walked out of his room to see his wife standing in the kitchen. Svetlana had moved back into the Milkovich household; she kept muttering about how Geno had to be "around his father" and how Mickey needed to raise him. Mickey pretended that it was the truth and let her stay, giving her Mandy's old room.

She was more tolerable when she wasn't bitching about--

_Fuck._

"I made scrambled eggs," Svetlana announced when her green eyes landed on Mickey. "Come. Eat. You have not eaten in days."

"I'm good."

"I was not asking, Danny Zuko," the Russian responded, "I was telling. Eat." Mickey complied because the stubborn bitch wouldn't stop unless Mickey did what she said. "You need job."

"I'm working on it," Mickey lied as he shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. He wasn't. He was too busy drinking and crying to look for jobs.

"Are you?"

"Mhm."

"Did you get job?"

"Not yet." Mickey made a mental note to actually look for a job. He needed to move on and become a productive member of society.

He's been through worse. He can get through this as well. At least, he hopes he can.


	2. 6x01 - Ian

"Take your meds," Fiona reminded her little brother.

"I have, mother," Ian responded mockingly. The meds still robbed him of his feelings. They killed anything that made him feel like a human fucking being. Ian hated it.

The doctor said that he'll get used to it but he doesn't think he will. The feeling of numbness was like a scratchy woolen blanket over him, making him sweaty and itchy.

"Not your mom," his older sister reminded him, "I just care about you." Ian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She didn't care. No one did. They just kept asking him about his medication because they feel like that was enough. But it wasn't. The only person who cared was--

_Fucking hell._

Ian could not get rid of the dark-haired man's image implemented into his head. He missed Mickey. Mickey was the concrete that filled the gaping void inside him. And now he was gone and its all Ian's fault.

Ian had heard about Mickey coming back. He'd seen his ex from afar. Mickey's cheeks had sunken in, saggy skin loosely spread over the bones. Sometimes they would make eye contact but Mickey would quickly look away before Ian could wave or say anything else. 

They had so many things to talk about, so many unfinished conversations. But Mickey wasn't ready and instead of pushing, Ian would give him his space.

But how do you give space to someone when your heart is frantically trying to get back to them, escape the clutches of your ribcage and nestle itself in their arms? How do you resist talking to them when your soul feels empty and alone without them? How do you act like nothing happened when that was quite the contrary?

Ian fell for the Southside thug. It was cliche but it is what it is. He fell for the quick and brash tongue, and those sapphire orbs that hardened and softened depending on who he was talking to, and the man that hugged him tightly at the police station, dropping all of his guards and demolishing his hard exterior the moment he saw his heavily sedated boyfriend. 

He fell for the soft, freckled skin Ian couldn't stop touching and the billowy lips Ian couldn't stop kissing, and the charcoal coloured hair that stuck out in all directions in the morning, that stood out against the milky skin and bright eyes. He fell for Mickey Milkovich and he pushed him away when Mickey got too close for comfort.

But Mickey would forgive him. He knew it. Because their souls are bound together, made to be entwined with each other. Even when the Earth dies out and the sun is no longer part of the universe, their souls will be intertwined, floating along the stars and planets in space. 

"Found a new job yet?" Lip inquired.

"No," Ian answered as he forced himself to eat.

"No worries, you'll get one."

Ian merely nodded; he didn't talk as much anymore. Not that anyone noticed. They went about their merry ways and chatted along with everyone else, while Ian was left in the dust, sticking out like a sore thumb. The only one who made him feel included, besides Mandy was--

was Mickey.

 

  *****************

_It had been a couple days after Mickey had first kissed Ian. Ian felt like he was floating when Mickey pressed those billowy, soft lips against his. His head spun violently and all he wanted to do was grab the boy and never let go._

_The phantom feeling of his lips never left Ian's,  and Ian did everything he could not to touch his lips and smile like an idiot. That was fucking stupid._

_His heart jolted when Mickey offered him to stay at the Milkovich household. Of course, he had to give his fuck buddy shit. "Was I just invited to a sleepover?" Ian taunted._

_"Fuck you is what you were invited to," Mickey responded with a roll of his cerulean eyes._

_"Thought I did all of the fucking," Ian grinned._

_Mickey smirked as a comfortable silence fell between the pair. "Gallagher. Why don't you come help me with somethin' in the back room?" His smirk spread into a grin as he walk past the redhead boy and into the backroom. Ian followed, drowning in giddiness._

_The second that the door closed, Ian slotted their lips together, making the shorter boy sharply inhale as he caressed Ian's cheek. The way his lips molded against Mickey's and the way their hearts beat as one drove Ian insane. The sweet scent of Mickey intoxicated him, and the citrus taste of his lips made his stomach swell up tremendously._

_He had it bad; he had it so bad. Nothing else seemed as good as being with Mickey like this, being so raw and passionate and vulnerable as their tongues glided together._

_"Ian!" A shrill voice said, that voice belonging to Linda. The voice caused Mickey to push the redhead away as both boys pretended to look for something in the backroom. Ian's lips tingled with the memory of Mickey's on them and he could hear his heart pounding frantically against his chest, demanding to be heard by Linda._

_Ian wondered if this feeling would ever fade away. He had hoped not._

Somewhere along the line, the burning passion dwindled like a candle in the wind. In its wake was the feeling of comfort, safety.. home. Mickey's arms were a refuge and his lips were comfort. It felt like Ian had been lost for years but now he's finally found his home. And now it's gone.

Ian felt like a nomad; fleeing from one shelter to another. Except they didn't feel like shelters. They felt temporary. Ian knew the only home he's had was a person with cerulean eyes, raven hair and calloused hands that caressed his skin and ran through his red tresses.

So he stopped looking for a replacement.

Ian sat at the dingy Alibi, not interested in getting a drink until Kev started protesting. "Nah. Fiona told me you can't drink. Makes you sick as fuck and shit. Sorry, man."

"I'll have a non-alcoholic one, then," Ian sighed, not willing to put up a fight. He was drained--emotionally and physically. He just needed to be outside of the house where his siblings patted themselves on the back for telling him to take his meds.

"Coming right up," Kev replied, obviously pleased with Ian's choice. The door swung open and in came the freckled dark-haired man. Ian's stomach quivered excitedly at the sight, and his shoulders sagged. Cerulean eyes landed on him and lips parted to say something, but Mickey shook his head and closed them again, sitting at the stool. 

"Whiskey. Leave the bottle," Mickey told Kev. Ian scanned the dingy bar; the oak walls, the wooden tables, the sticky bar and the rowdy noise that came along with it.

_"I'm sick of living a lie, aren't you?"_

_"I'm not lying to you."_

_"Everybody else?"_

_"Who gives a shit about everybody else?" Mickey inquired incredulously. "What fucking difference does it make if I lie to them?"_

_"Because.." Ian slammed his palm down on the wooden, circular table. "Because you're not free."_

_"Ian, what you and I have, makes me free. Not what these assholes know."_

"You know where to get a job?" the same voice inquired Kev as he gulped down his drink. "Wife's been riding my ass to get one for days now." 

"Nah, man," Kev answered.

"My, uh.." Ian butt in, clearing his throat when the duo turned their heads to look at him, "my sister works at a diner. I could pull some strings, get you a job there."

"I don't want to be working for your fucking sister," his ex responded curtly.

"You won't be working for her, you'll be working with her." 

"Still, no. Thanks though."

"Hey, a job's a job," Kev responded, but his voice tapered as Mickey glared at him. Mickey wasn't comfortable with working with his ex's sister. Of course. Ian was fucking stupid.

Ian watched Mickey's cerulean eyes land on Ian's soft drink. "Its not alcoholic."

"I didn't fucking ask," Mickey responded.

_"You know you're not supposed to drink on Lithium," Mickey warned, shaking his head as Ian pulled out the cool can, it feeling smooth and hard against his injured skin, "it makes your blood fucking toxic and gets you hammered in, like, two seconds."_

Ian stared at his soft drink, and for the first time, he felt an emotion. Not a positive one, but one nonetheless. It was as if he was rubbing logs together, hoping for a spark, and it finally came. 

His heart expanded painfully as pain laced his stomach.

He slapped a couple bills on the counter and stood up. "Thanks for the drink," he plastered a smile at Kev, and walked out without even glancing at his first love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how'd y'all like the juxtaposition(kinda)? 
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	3. 6x02 - Mickey

**One Month Later**

Mickey's skin was sleeked with sweat and his arm hurt while his hand cramped, but all of those were minor factors to the burning pit of arousal lighting up his insides. He bit hard on his knuckle, determined to not let anything embarrassing leak out as his wrist twisted and his thumb touched the slit of his cock. 

He knew he was close when his cock twitched and the burning sensation increased. His teeth dug painfully into the tight skin as the pace increased, while one person filled his mind.

Ian. Ian with his auburn hair, hair that looked like fire perched on top of his head. Ian with his milky skin and pouty, pink lips that Mickey was dying to kiss. Ian with his big hands and stringy fingers and his even bigger cock. 

Mickey came all over his hand with a muffled groan, registering the pain on his knuckle, which had dents of his teeth.  _Fuck._ Mickey missed him; badly. But he wasn't going to saunter over there and give himself to the redhead, because Ian would shatter his healing heart even more and Mickey couldn't deal with that. Not now.

Neither Ian or Mickey had talked since the bar. To be honest Mickey felt bad for treating Ian like that. Every fiber in his being wanted to go after the redhead, wanted to taste those sweet lips again, even if it was for a moment. But he didn't go because he was hurt, and he was still hurting.

Mickey grabbed a tissue and cleaned himself up before his phone rang. He glanced at the ID; Mandy. Iggy had stayed in touch with her and gave Mickey her phone number. Of course, Mickey didn't ask for it; but she was his sister and one of the two siblings he gave a shit about.

He picked it up, catching his breath. "Hey."

 _"Hi, douchebag,"_ Mandy chirped on the other line.  _"Why are you panting? You know what, don't answer that."_

"Wasn't fuckin' going to anyways," Mickey responded. "How's.. wherever the fuck you are?"

 _"It's good,"_ Mandy answered,  _"I'm happy you remember where I am."_

"Piss off, bitch."

 _"How are you, though?"_ Mandy inquired. Mickey knew what she was talking about; 'you still heartbroken?' He didn't know how to answer that. He was, but he's grown to ignore the excruciating pain that's spread all over his body, that burns his insides to crisps and destroys all hope ever. Not that Mickey had much hope to begin with.

"I'm better," he lied. He knew it wasn't convincing. He knew she wouldn't believe him. But she had her own shit to deal with, and he wasnt ready to bear his bruised heart out to her. The last time he had beared his heart, it was smashed into little fragments and his body disintegrated into nothing. 

He was right. Mandy didn't believe him. But she didn't push. _"Well I got a new job. Escorting."_

"Classy."

 _"Oh, fuck off,"_ Mandy responded curtly.  _"You pimped out your wife."_

"Yeah, I have no room to judge, do I?"

_"No."_

"You weren't supposed to fucking answer that."

 

****************

 

_Ian had been off all day at work. Mickey knew it was because he had fucked Angie. But there was nothing to be jealous of. They were just fucking each other to get their rocks off._

_But Mickey has fucked other people to get his rocks off and never has he ever had the craving to just press his lips against theirs, or to spend as much time with them. Whenever he was with the redhead it felt like a bird was fluttering about inside his chest, desperate to fly out. The more he spent time with Ian, the more the bird flapped its wings._

_He was terrified of catching feelings, especially for another boy. He couldn't fall in love, right? Love doesn't exist. It is a concept that humans have made up to cope with the bitter world when it knocked them off of their feet and beat the shit out of them. He's never heard anyone utter the words "I love you" to another person. He couldn't be feeling something that didn't exist._

_But when he looked at those sad emerald eyes his demeanor crumbled like pastry and every fear shattered like glass until Mickey was surrounded by shards of his fear. He wanted to bend over backwards to make Ian feel better, but he didn't know how to._

_"Ay, listen, I'm gonna head home early," Ian said to Mickey._

_"Like.. fucking now?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Why?" Mickey inquired even though he knew why. "You comin' down with a fever?"_

_"I don't need to tell you why," Ian responded curtly._

_"Fuck you, then," Mickey snapped. "Fuck me for giving a shit."_

_Ian stood up. "Whatever. Go bury your dick in Angie Zahgo." And with that he walked out._

Mickey had wished he said something back then. He wished that his mind didn't scare him into silence. He wished, he wished, he wished. None of that happened anyways. He leaned against the wooden bar of their porch, scanning the neighborhood when he saw a redhead walk over to his house. "Mandy ain't here."

"I know," Ian responded, "how is she?"

"Why don't you fucking ask her yourself?" Mickey responded curtly. 

"She won't talk to me," Ian answered, "probably pissed that I broke her brother's heart."

Mickey snorted. "You didn't break shit." 

Ian stared at the dark-haired man for a while, emerald eyes searching Mickey's face for a sign that he was lying. But Mickey was good at hiding how he felt. His face was a blank veil covering the chaos that he felt on the daily inside. Ian gave up and stared at his feet. "We need to talk."

"What about?"

"Us."

Mickey snorted again. "There is no us. You ended that shit. Remember?" 

"But do you really want us to act like we don't fucking know each other?" Ian inquired. "We've been through a lot and most of it was because of me, and I apologize for it. I don't expect you to forgive me. Hell, I don't forgive myself. But we need to talk. I can't.. I can't pretend to not know you. You need to hear me out. Please, Mick."

Mickey stared at the man. He looked broken, defeated, nothing like the boy who dumped Mickey in front of his house. His emerald eyes were pleading Mickey to agree. Mickey's heart strings tugged violently at the man. Ian knew how to make him feel things he's never felt before. 

Mickey pursed his lips and sighed. "Come inside." Ian smiled triumphantly and followed his ex in the shitty house.

 


	4. 6x02 - Ian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of suicide

_Ian had not been able to get out of bed for weeks now. He felt like the world was crushing him into tiny pieces, and leaving him out to dry. He couldn't face his boyfriend's sad cerulean eyes. He felt like a disappointment. He was a disappointment. His boyfriend didn't deserve him._

_He would've killed himself if his energy hadn't run dry._

_Weeks passed by without Ian getting out of the bed. Sometimes he ate. Sometimes he didn't. It didn't matter. He wondered why no one would let him starve to death. Or better yet, why no one would just leave him alone._

_One day that awful feeling had dissipated into thin air. He woke up super early and went for a jog, the sun peeking over the horizon to greet him. The feeling of indestructibility was back in full swing._

_When he had gotten back his boyfriend was up, and his face lit up the way the sun lit up the sky in the morning. "Look who's fucking up."_

_"Hi," Ian grinned before leaning closer to his boyfriend. Mickey bit his lip and softly greeted the redhead back before slotting their mouths together. Ian missed his lips. Mickey's lips cured the ache that once seeped into his bones, and his lips provided the fire that ignited his insides. Their tongues glided together effortlessly._

_Mickey tasted like blueberry pancakes and syrup. He felt like everything Ian was deprived of ever since he was born, had come back again. He made Ian's heart sing its own song that only his insides can hear, while his stomach danced merrily to the beautiful song._

_Most of all, he made Ian horny._

_"Got you all hard, didn't I?" Mickey mumbled against his lips. "Can't fucking resist me, can you?"_

_"You know I can't." Ian let out a sigh of pleasure as Mickey nibbled on his freckled neck. "Are you gonna help me?"_

_Mickey pulled back. "I'm quite hungry actually."_

_"But you just ate!"_

_"Yeah but I want more." His boyfriend grinned teasingly while walking out of their room. "You know what they say," he said loud enough for the redhead to hear, "breakfast is the most fuckin' important meal of the day."_

_"Dick is more important," Ian grumbled to himself._

Nothing had changed in the Milkovich household. Not that Ian expected it to change. They never had the luxury to renovate their house. 

"We don't have anything non-alcoholic," his ex informed Ian, "except for tap water." He leaned against the wall, sapphire eyes darting around Ian, refusing to look at him. 

"I didn't come here to drink."

"No, you came here to talk," Mickey responded, "so talk."

Ian opened his mouth but only a gush of air came out. His mind was a blank piece of paper that used to be filled with notes of how Ian would start their awkward-but-very-much-needed talk. Ian forgot how Mickey made his heart pound against the stretched skin of his chest. He forgot how one look of those beautiful clear eyes would make his thoughts jumble up. 

Those eyes used to hold so much emotion for Ian, but now they were hard, like two chips of ice wedged into his sclera. "Well?"

"I'm sorry," Ian managed to blurt out.

"You've said that already."

"Yeah but I can't stress that enough," Ian responded, "I was fucking stupid for dumping you. I shouldn't have. I understand that now. I know you won't be able to forgive me, but at least try to? We can work things out."

"No," his ex stated.

"No?" 

"No," Mickey repeated. "You can't fucking break my heart and then come back, asking for us to start over again. You can't fucking do that." He pushed himself off of the wall and walked over to the fridge. "We won't  _ever_ be the same." 

A knife plunged into Ian's stomach and twisted painfully. "We can try."

"No, we fucking can't."

"Yes we can."

"Goddamn it!" Mickey exclaimed, turning to finally look at the redhead. "Let's say we fucking did. How long would that last? A year? Two years? And then you're either gonna fucking run away or you're gonna dump me. That's what you do. You push and push and  _push_ for what you want, and if you don't get what you want, you leave. But if you do get what you want, you get fucking tired of it after a while and leave. No one deserves that.  _I_ don't deserve that."

"Mickey, I was sick," Ian argued, flabbergasted.

"Were you sick when you got enlisted?" Mickey sneered.

"Maybe I was!" Ian exclaimed. "Maybe I wasn't! Either way it was fucking hard for me to see someone I love get married to someone else because their piece of shit father wanted him to."

"That piece of shit father would've skinned me alive if I didn't agree to marry Svetlana!" Mickey growled. "It was always about you, wasn't it? Always what  _you_ wanted. Never about me." 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ian exclaimed. "I did think about you! What about all those fucking years when you refused to kiss me or hold me or be my fucking boyfriend! I was falling for you and you were out fucking other girls and pretending that you didn't love me. I watched someone I loved with all my heart marry a woman. And I still forgave you. I still loved you. I'm ready to prioritize you. Tell me what you want."

Mickey didn't say anything. His eyes were glossed over and his lip quivered slightly. His teeth dug into the soft flesh as he blinked back unshed tears. "I'm not ready to be in a relationship."

Ian's heart shattered like glass, and shards migrated up to Ian's throat. But he swallowed the shards back, for Mickey's sake. "Then what do you want me to do? What would you do if you were me and I were you?"

Mickey pondered the question. "Well for starters, I wouldn't have come into this house with a fucking tire iron," he teased. "You got fucking guts. You were stupid but you got guts."

Ian smiled. It felt foreign on his face; his muscles felt clumsy as if they had never pulled the corners of his mouth upwards before. It was contradicting to how he felt inside; broken into tiny little pieces, never to be put back ever again. "Yeah, that was stupid of me." 

Mickey matched his smile. Ian forgot how beautiful it was, how it lit up his face and how even now, it made Ian's hurting heart feebly skip a beat. "I'd want us to be friends. Just friends. Not friends that fuck. We never really got the luxury to have a.. platonic relationship. And.. I can't pretend to not know you either. It fucking kills me."

Shards migrated up Ian's throat again. He swallowed it back down, even though they scraped the lining of his throat, leaving scratches behind. He needed to prioritize Mickey again. For so long, Ian's needs were in the spotlight while Mickey's were pushed into the dark. And it wasn't fair. Ian needed to get off the spotlight and let the light shine on Mickey for once.

"Okay," Ian agreed, "friends it is."


	5. 6x03 - Mickey

_The whole day, Mickey debated looking for Ian. His mind went back and forth between two choices--finding Ian or staying home, pretending that he enjoyed having a wife and a child on the way. His heartstrings tugged painfully at the thought of finding Ian, almost ripping the muscles of his heart while his mind trapped him inside a cage that his father built._

_Fuck it. He was going._

_He rummaged through his clothes after thoroughly cleaning himself. His stomach was filled with the bile-tasting feeling of nervousness, as the heap of clothes got bigger and bigger. He didn't know why he cared so much. He kept glancing over his shoulder at Svetlana, who was fast asleep on the bed, the mounds of her breasts rising and falling as she took breath after breath._

_He let himself get lost in the tangle of thoughts that were mostly about the redhead, and his heart fluttered excitedly as he thought about how he might finally get to see that freckled face he direly missed. But the feeling was short as he came to the conclusion that Ian might not want to see him again._

_Maybe Ian had a boyfriend. Mickey's jaw clenched at the thought as jealousy wrapped its inky tendrils around him and squeezed him tight. Even if he was taken it'd be Mickey's fault. He was too consumed with being Daddy's perfect son to consider how Ian felt. He shouldn't have called Ian a punk for wanting a boyfriend._

_Because maybe he wanted one too, now._

_But not just anyone. He wanted Ian to be his. He wanted to wake up to a sleepy freckled face and go to sleep with lanky arms around him. He wanted to be around the redhead and run his fingers through copper wisps and kiss and do all of the gay shit he was afraid to do before. Because he wasn't afraid of that now._

_What he was afraid of was losing Ian. Ian emitted a warm glow wherever he went; flowers bent over to soak in his light and everything seemed a little brighter with him around. Life was tolerable with him around. Now that he was gone, everything was cold, bleak--the flowers perished and the sun never shone. The sky was grey and lifeless and Mickey felt alone._

_He heard a familiar voice yell in the living room and saw Kev running his mouth about.. whatever it was he was so riled up on at the moment. Mickey didn't care. He did perk up when Kev asked to borrow a gun._

_"Who you gonna kill?" he said with a smirk before going back into his room, the tall man hot on his heels._

Mickey stared at his broken reflection in his dirty mirror. No excitement was welling up inside him. He wasn't rummaging through his clothes to find one. He didn't care what he looked like.

He ran a hand through his 5 o' clock shadow, the prickly hair tickling his calloused palm. Ian and him were going out to eat at Sizzlers. His treat, he said. It wasn't a date. It was just two friends hanging out.

Then why did Mickey want it to be a date so badly?

He wasn't ready for a relationship. He's made that crystal clear. He thought of how upset Ian looked; how Mickey could almost see a piece of his soul wither and die. But if Mickey forced himself into a relationship, it would be messy and horrible and unhealthy. And Mickey was tired of unhealthiness.

"Where are you going?" Svetlana questioned, snapping Mickey out of his cave of thoughts. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, that means a lot," Mickey quipped. "Going out. With a friend."

"You have  _friends_?" her thin eyebrows raised to her hairline.

"Ian." Mickey almost recoiled at Svetlana's inaudible reply. She didn't like him for good reasons. She only tolerated him because Mickey loved him. She would usually throw on a façade, thinly hiding her emotions with a neutral expression plastered onto her face but this time, there was no façade.

"Your ex?"

"How many Ian's do you know?"

"Is not good," Svetlana shook her head.

Mickey turned to her, eyebrows screwed in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't remember asking for your biased fucking opinion."

"Is not biased, asshole," her eyes blazed with annoyance. "You can not be friends with person you love. Is like.. quitting smoking, but being around people who smoke. One day, you'll get temptation to smoke and your efforts will go down the chute."

"Down the drain," the dark-haired man corrected.

"Do not start smoking again, Mickey," she said, ignoring the correction. "You'll get lung cancer." 

"I never fucking quit," Mickey responded exasperatedly.

"You love him," Svetlana stated. It wasn't a question; it was an observation. Mickey stayed quiet, the silence louder than any words that could've leaked out of his mouth.

_"You love him?" Svetlana questioned, leaning against the wall, chartreuse eyes never leaving Mickey. Three words never made him panic as much as the question had. His heart stuttered and tripped over its own heartbeats and his stomach wound into tight knots._

_"Maybe? I don't know," Mickey responded, trying to keep his cool but failing._

_"Because he has real penis?"_

_"Yeah. I guess."_

"You want to be with him, kiss him.. rub your dick with him. This is not what friends do. Him being friends with you will never be enough," Svetlana said, pulling Mickey back into reality. "You will give into temptation and get back with him. You want to get back with him?"

"I don't know," Mickey mumbled. "I gotta go, Ian's waiting for me." And with that, he left.

 

***************

 

Mickey never thought he'd be back at Sizzlers. The oak coloured tables and chairs were a contrast to the dark, crimson walls and dark countertop at the mini bar that they had. The  _pat_ of the soles of his shoes were muffled by the buzz of people talking. There was a soft yellow glow that fell on faces and objects and were reflected by white marble tiles and countertops.

Svetlana's stupid analogy was stuck in his head the way chewed gum stuck on a surface. However this analogy was a stubborn piece of gum. No matter how hard Mickey tried to scrape it off, it wouldn't come off.

His cerulean eyes scanned for a specific lanky redhead, who seemed to be in a corner of a table for two. He was fidgeting and his hands were slightly shaking--due to the medication or nerves, Mickey didn't know. However his heart stopped expanding as his mind was tricked to believe that Ian was taking his meds. The relief was short-lived as drops of irritation condensed in his veins. Why was he still concerned with Ian taking his medication? Ian was pretty clear that he didn't like that.

He walked over to the redhead. "Hey. Sorry I'm late." 

_Mickey walked up the stairs of the Gallaghers porch and knocked on the door. His heart beat eagerly, mixed with adrenaline and the need to see his boyfriend. He knocked on the door, and was greeted by Fiona. "Ian."_

_"Upstairs," she responded. Mickey nodded, pleased that their conversation didn't last long. He needed to be there for his boyfriend, he needed his boyfriend. He took two steps at a time and almost ran into the room._

_As he slowly opened the door, the door letting out a creak, he saw the sturdy back of his boyfriend, and messy copper wisps sticking out in all directions. "Hey." His boyfriend quickly turned around to look at the dark-haired man, surprise and relief etched on his perfect and tired face. "Sorry I'm late."_

The way his ex looked at him, he knew that Ian was thinking of the same thing. Both men stared at each other, so many words on the tips of their tongues, afraid to fly past their barriers of teeth. Mickey was the first one to break their inaudible conversation and Ian was the first one to break the silence. "Uh.. its alright. Sit. I ordered steaks for us already."

Mickey sat down across from Ian. "Mine better be really fucking rare."

"It is, you fucking vampire," Ian teased.

"Fuck you, vampires suck."

"Technically.." Ian's voice tapered when Mickey playfully glared at him.  He raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, sorry, sorry. Vampires are awful."

"Thank you." Mickey eyed Ian's outfit. Ian didn't put much thought into his outfit either, apparently; it was a white shirt and tight, blue jeans. No matter what Ian wore, he still looked beautiful. "Didn't think we'd be back here."

"Neither did I," Ian admitted, charteuse eyes scanning the place. "I mean, we could've if we went on our--"

"Yeah," Mickey interrupted, shifting uncomfortably. "She was a bitch for ruining it."

"She was." 

_"Its a shame when someone you love gets taken away. Isn't it?"_

Mickey's mood soured for a split second, and then their food came. He dug into the soft flesh, the taste filling his mouth. Ian stayed quiet and so did Mickey. Neither of them liked talking while eating, least of all, Mickey. 

"So, uh.." Ian started, swallowing the last bite, "I'm thinking of becoming an EMT."

"Oh yeah?" Mickey cocked an eyebrow. "You're going all official on me, Gallagher." 

"Not yet, Milkovich," Ian responded. "I gotta go to college for that. Get my GED first. Don't think I  _can_ pass at all."

"'Course you can," Mickey responded confidently. Ian has always had setbacks in life; whether it be his mental illness or the MPs coming to get him. But he always strove for the best. He was a stubborn fuck. And most of all, he loved helping others. 

"You think so?" 

"I know so." 

Ian beamed proudly, his lopsided grin touching his green eyes, warming it up. Mickey's heart flipped in his chest and expanded, as a smile slowly spread over his own features.

Svetlana was right; he couldn't be friends with Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOO MANY JUXTAPOSITIONS
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	6. 6x03 - Ian

Ian couldn't sleep that night. His eyes traced invisible patterns on his ceiling as hurt coiled around his heart and squeezed it tightly. He hated being friends with Mickey. He was so in love with his ex, it was pathetic.

His well of sadness filled to the brim with water that hasn't been shed, that isn't able to be shed, because his medication refuses to let him feel emotions like a normal human being. He was almost a walking corpse with a heart that beat painfully whenever Mickey was around.

Being just friends was what Mickey wanted. Mickey needed to know he was prioritized by Ian. And he was, he always was. But it was so hard being anywhere near the man and not be able to touch and kiss him. Ian had gotten a taste of Mickey, chewed him up and spit him back out, and now direly missing the sweet taste his ex always had.

The hours of the night slipped past like water between cracks between fingers in cupped hands, and a soft glow filtered through the window, lighting the room up. Ian was still wide awake.

The coil wrapped tightly around his heart squeezed tightly as he remembered all the nights he spent with Mickey in the very same bed. His pillows and his sheets didn't have the same sweet scent of his ex, and his body wasn't pressed against porcelain skin, and his face wasn't tickled by inky black hair. For a short while his small bed seemed way too big for him.

He gave up on sleep shortly afterwards and padded downstairs to their porch, and sat on the wooden steps. He toyed with his phone in his hands, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time.

"Hey," a voice said, cutting through his silence like a knife. Ian looked up and was greeted by soft eyes that held pity and worry at the same time. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Ian responded softly and then cleared his throat, "yeah, I'm fine." His eyes traveled back to his phone, being turned this way and that. He wasn't fine but he wasn't willing to pour his heart out to Lip. Lip had his own shit.

"Bullshit," Lip scoffed, and sat next to his little brother.

"You don't need to know everything that's wrong with my life."

"I used to."

Ian stayed silent for a while, choosing his words carefully, but none came to his mind. So he settled with "Yeah, well.." and a shrug.

"I won't let you down," Lip promised. "I've never let you down before."

_"Name a single time I've let you down."_

Ian sighed. "Mickey and I are at this awkward.. friend place. I dunno. It's bumming me the fuck out."

"Hold up," Lip said, "Mickey Milkovich can be friends with someone?"

"Fuck off," Ian responded with a small smile. Both brothers fell into comfortable silence. "We're not supposed to be just friends."

"Then why are you?"

"Because he.. he's not ready to be in a relationship," Ian answered, "I mean.. I don't fuckin' blame him. After what I did to him, I'm shocked that he still wants to be around me."

Lip stayed silent, watching his little brother pick at the pink scabs on his right hand, the hand he burnt in a desperate attempt to feel something. The medication had taken a toll on the redhead, detaching his emotions from his brain, burning down anything that required feeling emotions to ashes. "Ian, you know that it's not your fault, right? Everything that's happened.. it's the illness."

Irritation clawed at the edges of his fucked up brain. He was so fucking tired of his family members excusing his shitty actions, putting them in a file labelled 'it's his illness, not him' and hide the file from him. "So? Just because I'm fucked in the head doesn't mean I'm not accountable for my actions. Stop treating me like a broken.. thing, cause I'm not."

"I know that, dipshit," Lip responded. "What you did was shitty. Mickey has every fucking right to be hurt. But that wasn't you, Ian. Your manic episodes aren't you. Your depressive episodes aren't you. No one should hold your mental illness against you."

His irritation dwindled. Lip had a point; he always did. Ian was bipolar and its dark tendrils tainted his brain, pushing away the ones that loved him the most and isolating himself, while cradling him in its arms and letting him give in to the amazing feeling that came with being manic. However he was still at fault. It was 50/50.

That wasn't the point though; he still hurt Mickey. That wasn't his illness. That wasn't his upbringing. That was all him. And Ian detested himself for it.

"What do you think I should do?" Ian inquired, looking at his older brother.

"You're not gonna like what I'm gonna say."

"I'm not gonna like any advice other than 'convince him to get back with you'," Ian pointed out, which elicited a snort of laughter from the other man.

"Yeah, that's not what I'm gonna say," Lip responded. "He deserves to know how you feel. He also deserves to actually.. heal. And he can't if he gets back with you. That shit's gonna go downhill, fast."

"You're telling me to wait it out?" Ian inquired.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Lip responded and got up. "If you need me, I'm gonna make blueberry pancakes." He stepped inside the house, leaving Ian's thoughts to swallow him whole.

_Ian and Mickey were hidden away from prying eyes in the surprising shelter of the high school bleachers. It was their safe haven; a place where they can shed their fake demeanors--and clothes, usually--and be themselves._

_It was a place where Mickey let his true colours shine through and paint Ian a beautiful picture of the beautiful boy that was caged in the prison of his mind, and Ian was in awe of the boy unfolding in front of him._

_Ian has never felt this strongly for someone. Not even Kash. Mickey held a key to a door that held emotions that were locked away for so long. Even when Mickey was saying something brusquely, Ian found him beautiful._

_It was exciting and scary at the same time._

_"We need a better place to bang," Mickey grumbled, "this place fucking sucks." He sucked on the cigarette, and blowing out puffs of smoke, leaning against the metal fence, the redhead beside him._

_"It's better than nothing," Ian pointed out._

_"Sure, but it still fucking sucks," the dark-haired boy responded and handed the cigarette to Ian. Both boys shared the cigarette, in silence, relishing in their thoughts. "You wanna go again, Coppercock?"_

_"Coppercock?" Ian grinned._

_"Yeah."_

_"Creative, Milkovich."_

_"You can go fuck yourself," the shorter boy responded, but with no heat behind his statement. Ian smirked and turned to face him. He was grinning cheekily at the redhead while the two undid their own pants and jerked themselves off to full hardness._

_Ian's heart thudded in his ribcage and the urge to kiss Mickey was overwhelming. He leaned in, hesitant at first, and felt Mickey's warm breath fan over his lips before the latter stepped back._

_"The fuck do you think you're doing?"_

_Disheartened, Ian shook his head. "Nothing." He turned the shorter boy around and slicked his fingers with lube before breaching the boy's hole. He made quick work of opening Mickey up before layering ample amounts of lube on his cock and thrusting into his fuckbuddy's tight ass._

_Both boys grunted, even though Ian's mind was somewhere else. He kept thinking of full pink lips and calloused hands caressing his face. He wanted Mickey as his boyfriend but Mickey wasn't ready. How long would Ian wait until he got tired of it?_

_Ian's hot pleasure painted Mickey's insides and Mickey came all over his own hand. Ian pulled out and didn't say a word as the other boy zipped his pants and left without looking back, slipping his harsh demeanor back on like a coat._

_Ian was falling for Mickey Milkovich._

 

 

****************

 

The place held significance. It held so many memories that were sweet while tinged with the bitterness of breakup. Ian still thought the bleachers was his safe haven.

The other safe haven was a pair of arms that belonged to a certain dark-haired man that Ian fucked over.

"Hey," the husky voice greeted, making Ian's heart leap to his throat. "Wife wanted me to take Geno. Said I don't spend much fucking time with him. I don't, but for good reasons that she completely refuses to understand. Commie bitch."

"He's getting big," Ian commented. Geno's hair was light blond, falling onto porcelain skin and green eyes that mirrored his mother's. He somewhat looked like Mickey. 

"Yeah, he's a fat fuck."

"It's baby fat."

"Still fat," Mickey pointed out. 

Ian rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever." They fell in a comfortable silence. "I refilled my meds today."

"Good for you," his ex responded curtly. His eyes weren't on Ian, but Ian can feel the happiness radiating from him. Ian knew that deep, deep down, Mickey wanted to care. But he was hurt and that hurt possessed his body, making him not give a shit.

"The doctor at the clinic said that I might feel better," Ian informed his ex, "that the right 'cocktail' of meds will make me feel amazing." He swallowed hard.

"Still shooting in the dark, huh?"

"Yeah, unfortunately." Ian sniffed due to the cold. "I'll get my right cocktail. I still have 30 to 40 years to deal with this, right? That's plenty of fucking time."

"Yeah."

"I'm.. I'm sorry, Mick," Ian said sincerely. "You didn't deserve that. No one did. It was selfish of me. I'm trying to change, I really am. But changing won't.. fix what I said that day. It won't fix us." 

Mickey's lower lip trembled slightly and he bit down on the soft flesh, as he blinked back unshed tears. "You're fucking getting somewhere, at least." He let out a weak chuckle, that wasn't out of amusement. 

Ian stared at him, as phrases like  _thank you_ and  _I love you_ got stuck in his throat, refusing to fly past his lips. So instead he nodded. "Yeah, I guess." 

"You just.. gotta take it slow," his ex said, his voice gentle. "One day at a time. And if one day gets too long, then one hour at a time. Step by step." 

Ian couldn't help but smile. "Yeah," Ian responded, "that sounds easy to do." 

However he knew something that was incredibly hard to do, which swallowed him whole and drowned him every chance it got. However, it was worth it to even get his ex to acknowledge him.


	7. 6x04 - Mickey

**Two months later**

Many people have left Mickey in his short life. Many people have broken him beyond repair. He was remaining dust of a boy that was lost in this world. He gave into the temptation of drugs that momentarily distracted him from his troubles, and built walls around himself as sturdy as possible so he would never be hurt.

Ian knocked them all down one by one and got Mickey vulnerable, naked and exposed. Mickey didn't plan on this happening. He didn't plan to catch feelings. He didn't plan to love the man.

Stupid as he was, he gave Ian his heart and Ian ran his teeth through it repeatedly, walking out the door of their home that they built in him and never came back. Just like how his mom walked out the door of their household. Just like how Mandy walked out and never came back.

All of them took pieces of Mickey when they left, Ian taking the biggest one. Now Mickey was a man with chunks of his body missing, leaving gaping, untreated wounds.

Maybe Mickey bit off more than he can chew. Maybe he loved too hard. Maybe he cared too much. He shouldn't blame himself for the way things happened, but he did. He blamed himself for everything that went wrong in their relationship. He blamed himself for his mother's death and he blamed himself for Mandy's departure. 

Either way, it left him angry and miserable and so fucking lonely, with the same question echoing in his mind, getting louder and louder with each sip of alcohol, refusing to be muffled by the buzzing that the bitter drink gave Mickey;  _why was I never enough?_ He hated that question because he didn't know. He didn't know why he wasn't enough.

With alcohol sloshing in his stomach with every movement, he went through his gallery, selfies of him and Ian before the _incident_  happened. They were happy. They were two boys who stumbled upon safety in one another. Mickey still remembered how terrifying and thrilling it felt to just be in the redhead's presence. He still remembered how Ian would make the little bird in his chest awaken and flutter about, without the lingering presence of hurt. Life was better than it was now. 

Sadness dampened his mood and the dam that Mickey built in order to keep his tears at bay broke in half. Water spilled over and out of his eyes and the shitty lights in his room blurred together with everything else as tears pooled on his upper lip. 

He didn't know why he was crying--even though it wasn't the last time he cried--but those emotions that he kept locked up in a box never to be touched, slipped out whenever Jack Daniels slipped past his lips and down his throat.

A faint click of the front door made its way to his ears, and Mickey put back the pieces of himself as quickly as he could before anyone caught him crying. He didn't need expressions of pity and words that tasted sweet but didn't do anything to help him. 

"I got groceries and your Malboro packet," a heavy Russian accent announced once Mickey got out of his room, leaning against a wall, drink in his hand. "Geno?"

"Asleep," Mickey answered. "You buy way too much fuckin' groceries." 

"If you Milkovich brothers did not eat like pigs, I would not buy this much," Svetlana retorted. "He did not wake up?"

"Nope." Mickey watched her take canned goods and other food out. "We don't eat that much. Most of our diet is beer and cigarettes, lady." 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Are you going to help?" her chartreuse eyes landed on her husband, in his wife beater and boxers, looking broken and defeated. She didn't say anything. Mickey didn't open up and neither did she.

"Fuck no. Have fun." And with that he retreated to his room to drink himself dumb. 

 

***************

 

Waking up in a stranger's apartment, still drunk, wasn't anything new to Mickey. He was used to the unhealthy cycle all too well. Before,  he felt lighter, with a spring in his steps. Sex with no strings attached was his favourite at one point. But that was when he didn't have conflicting thoughts and wasn't hung up on Ian.

Now the feeling of numbness wrapped around him, hugged him way too tightly and seeped into his head, digging its claws into the soft matter that was his brain. His soul was miles away from his body, leaving a walking corpse in the wake of its absence. 

He checked his phone while riding the L, and saw a text from Ian, heart beating sporadically:  _Woke up early, wanna hang out?_ it had said. Rolling his tongue over his lower lip, he weighed his options--be home alone on his day off, or spend time with Ian.

As usual, Ian tipped the scale. 

 _Sure,_ he texted back,  _where?_

The reply was almost immediate; as if Ian had his phone in his hands, waiting with bated breath for Mickey to respond. As much as Mickey liked to think that that was the reason, he was sure that his response was sent when Ian was close to his phone. 

 _Come to Patsy's maybe? They have the best pancakes,_ Ian's text said. Mickey scratched his nose. Being at the place where his ex's sister worked at was unappealing but Ian was there and it was worth it.

So he wasn't surprised when he was in front of Patsy's, facing the newly painted door and dingy windows. Through the window he could see his ex sitting at a booth. He took a deep breath and walked inside, already irritated at the pop song spilling over the speakers.

He slid into the booth across from his ex. "Hey."

"Hi," Ian greeted back, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Didn't think you'd come."

 _Neither did I, but apparently I can't fucking say no to you._ Mickey shrugged and suddenly took interest in the bright red table separating the two. "Yeah, well.. I'm drunk and hungry as shit, so why not?" 

"When are you not drunk and hungry as shit?" Ian taunted.

"Fair point."

A tall woman with a way-too-perky attitude came in and took their orders, smiling and twirling the hair that wasn't in the restraint of her ponytail, not-so-subtly flirting with Mickey. Mickey took it with a grain of salt but Ian on the other hand, took it with a handful of salt as he watched the girl go with an arched eyebrow. "She was hitting on you."

"Whatever, man," Mickey shrugged again, "she was barking up the wrong fucking tree. You, of all people, know that." His stomach reverberated inside him, eliciting a small growl. 

"Fair enough. It's still funny." 

"You know what else is funny?" Mickey retorted, eyebrows raised to his hairline, "my fist in your face if you don't shut the fuck up." There was no heat behind his statement, and the way Ian smirked, he knew that too.

Even with their fucked up situation, them joking around and teasing each other was like breathing. They were always friends, even when they were together. Ian knew Mickey inside out and Mickey knew Ian inside out. Being friends would've been easy to them if their hearts weren't attached to each other.

"Is that a challenge? Cause I could totally kick your ass."

"Bring it on, tough guy." As their food got to them by the same waitress, neither of them paid attention to anyone else but each other and their food. Well, at least Mickey didn't. 

"I've been wanting to tell you something," Ian said solemnly as both of them finished their food. The sharp turn of their conversation suddenly changed the atmosphere from light to heavy. Mickey's heart expanded in nervousness.

"Go on." 

Ian hesitated, charteuse eyes trained on his fingers picking at the skin around his nail bed on his index finger. His hesitation did nothing but increase the nervousness into full blown panic.

"Spit it out, Gallagher." 

"I'm still in love with you, Mickey," the redhead admitted, not looking up into cerulean eyes. "I love you." 

Those three words that Mickey once would've killed to hear, bounced around in his sluggish brain, being turned and examined closely. In the past, it would've made his heart soar in the clouds above them, and it would've consumed him with happiness like no other. But where was it when Mickey needed to hear it the most? 

"You can't do this to me," Mickey said, shaking his head. "You can't break my heart and then fucking come back and tell me you 'still' are in love with me. If you loved me back then you wouldn't have broken up with me." 

"I wasn't right in the head when we broke up, you fucking know that," Ian argued, raising his eyes to his ex that was slowly falling apart in front of him.

Ian was right. He wasn't in the right mental state in the duration of their relationship. He still wasn't to this day; but inklings of the old Ian was coming back. Mickey leaned back in his seat. "How long?" 

"What?" 

"If we get back together, how long will you stay with me? Until you get sick of me."

"I'm not gonna get fucking sick of you."

"Yeah? And how the fuck do I know that?" Ian didn't deserve this. Mickey knew he didn't. But his hurt had taken over his body and was being represented by anger. "How do I know you won't leave?" 

Ian was apparently at a loss for words. He stared back at the hurt dark-haired man, watching the gaping wounds inside Mickey stretch out a bit more. "I can prove it to you. I know I can. Just give me a chance." 

"I'm not ready, Ian," Mickey stated. 

"Then I'll wait until you're ready," Ian responded, calmly. "I will. I love you."

Mickey wanted to say it back; he wanted to pour out his heart, he wanted to kiss the man in front of him, he wanted to do so many things. But the words he wanted to say refused to fly past his lips and out into the open air. The redhead lowered his eyes back to his hands on the table and didn't stop Mickey when he got up, placed a couple bills on the table, and walked out. 


	8. 6x04 - Ian

Ian let Mickey leave, his broken heart in those tattooed hands. Was this how Mickey felt when Ian didn't say it back? When Mickey poured his heart out and got silence in return? Did it feel like Ian was shoving his hand into Mickey's chest and pulling his heart out? 

Ian didn't doubt it did. He didn't know how to make amends and it hurt more, tinged with the feeling of helplessness. How does Ian prove to Mickey that he'll stay when Mickey was sure that Ian had one foot out the door, waiting to leave everything that made his life tolerable?

"Hey, kiddo," a soft voice said, interrupting Ian's thoughts. "You okay? You've been staring at the table for a couple minutes."

"Yeah, uh.. just spaced out," Ian lied and painted on a smile to cover the wreck inside him. Ever since the medication he had to teach himself how to smile, trick himself into thinking that this numbness was happiness. But he was a fool, because happiness was sapphire eyes, hair the colour of soot slicked back, porcelain skin and a heart that emitted love, the glow travelling inside Ian and warming up everything inside him. 

His sister didn't buy it for one minute. "You know you can come to me whenever you seemed troubled, right? And that stress is bad for the medication."

Ian barked a way-too-harsh laugh. "If I didn't want to be stressed, I'd have to fucking leave this place." Southside reeked of stress and desperation--it smelled sour and made your nose crinkle while your stomach churned sickeningly. 

Fiona smiled at her little brother. "Getting things off of your chest helps. Trust me." She smoothed his hair and got back to work, and Ian's façade formed cracks, his emotions seeping through the small cracks, widening them until the façade was nothing but pieces.

Getting up, bills still placed in between the two plates, he walked out, leaving his emotions in the diner. Ian learned quickly that it was easier to ignore them than to deal with them at all. 

Maybe the feeling of numbness wasn't that bad.

 

****************

 

 

  _I'm worried about you." A pause. "I love you."  A sigh that followed immediately. "Call me the fuck back." Ian's fuzzy brain automatically registered those three words that he once begged his boyfriend to say, and they felt like a mirage. Like this was still a dream and Ian would wake up in those white bunks, to a cheery voice that did nothing but confuse him more, and the gears in his mind groaning and whining in complaint as Ian tried to get them to work._

_Ian replayed the voicemail._

_"I'm worried about you. I love you."_

_It wasn't a mirage. It was real. The words cracked the shell surrounding his heart and cleared his brain a bit. Ian didn't know how much time he spent just listening to his boyfriend say those words._

_"I'm worried about you. I love you."_

_Ian's hand trembled as he fumbled with calling Mickey's number but it went straight to voicemail, Mickey's recorded voice ringing inside his ear ('I'll get back to you in a fucking while. Or not, I don't fucking know.') and Ian sighed._

_"I'm worried about you. I love you."_

_Those two sentences rang clear in his head while his other thoughts were muffled by the medication. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead but he forced them open as he stared up at the ceiling._

_"I'm worried about you. I love you."_

_Something woke inside Ian. The warmth that only Mickey could provide spread slowly like spilt water over a surface, covering every inch of his body. The two sentences were put on a loop like his favourite song, ringing clearer and clearer until Ian was sure that Mickey was beside him and whispering that into his skin._

_"I'm worried about you. I love you."_

_Ian wanted to sleep. He felt like he had been awake for days. But the fog cleared just a smidge for Ian to stay awake, while his body buzzed with energy. It wasn't like it was before, but it was enough for Ian to not be able to close his eyes. Most of all, he wanted to tell his boyfriend that he loved him too. He wanted to tell Mickey that he didn't deserve the dark-haired man and he wanted to cling onto Mickey like the man was his lifesaver. Because, maybe he was. Maybe Ian was stranded in the ocean and Mickey was the ring that was thrown in his direction to save him._

_He didn't want to take the medication. He wasn't sick like his mom, he didn't do half the shit Monica did. He'd never do anything like that. The medication killed any forms of life and emitted a fog that surrounded his brain and tainted it._

_He didn't need them, so why should he be taking them?_

_Getting up, he trudged out of the room, phone in his shaky hands. He decided to call Mickey again, but when he heard that angelic voice that ignited the warmth, it was his voicemail. Ian hung up, sighing, and trudged down the stairs. He was positive that the illness scared Mickey, make him get cold feet, so Mickey ran before his toes would get frostbitten._

_It should've hurt Ian. It should've angered him to the point where he left hundreds of voicemails on Mickey's phone until he answered. It didn't. Ian's brain was shutting down and pushing feelings out and his body had to deal with it._

_Walking down the stairs he noticed that his little sister was preoccupied with her phone, curled up on the couch and giggling at whatever was sent to her. He made a beeline to the kitchen and grabbed a carton of orange juice, the artificial sweet taste attacking his buds and travelling down his throat. As he put them down his numb eyes caught sight of his pills perched on the counter--bright orange containers with a white streak, his name scribbled on it._

_He stared at the containers and grabbed them, dumping the tiny white pills in his cupped hand and flushing them down the toilet._

_With that deed done, he walked out into the backyard and examined the bleak streets out in front of him._

 His pills teetered in his hand as he stood over the toilet. Should he do it? Should he stop taking his medication? Everyone wanted him to be stable, but what did  _he_ want? Did he want to feel like his heart and his body were separated? Did he want to live the rest of his days lonely and numb? 

The answer was obvious. But he'd hurt people he loved if he he didn't take the medication. He's done hurting people and making them hate him.

"Hurry up, my bladder is about to explode," Lip called from the other side of the bathroom door.

"One second," Ian called back and swallowed the pills dry as he walked out. He wasn't willing to risk other people's happiness over his own. He wasn't willing to be examined closely like a subject and not a human being.

So he walked down the steps and pretended like everything was normal when it wasn't. The excited chattering of his siblings pounded against his head and irritated him, but he swallowed it down with a piece of dry toast.

"Ian, can you grab some milk today?" Fiona questioned, "we have none." 

"Sure, whatever," Ian responded absentmindedly. "I was gonna get out of the house anyways." That was a lie. He was going to go back to his room and try to forget about his conflicting life before leaving to go fuck some anonymous man that squealed in pain and squirmed at the length and girth of his cock. That was his routine. 

He wasn't fond of his new routine.

The crisp air bit harshly at his tender flesh as he walked to the Kash and Grab. A fuckton of memories hit him like stones, each hit harder than the last, and bruising his pale skin. Most of them were of Mickey. 

_"Was this like a booty call?"_

_"Whatever, man. See ya."_

As he walked in the store was vacant. No Linda or any of her teenage employees. Ian gazed at the same counter that his younger self spent so much behind while his fuckbuddy guarded the doors, momentarily forgetting about his job as they fucked in the back room, the warmth of fucking his crush and the pleasure of sex warming Ian's insides up so much that he didn't even feel the cold air nipping his skin.

_"You think we're boyfriend and girlfriend here? You're nothing but a warm mouth to me."_

Ian grabbed the carton of milk and fished out a wad of bills, placing it on the counter. "Keep the change," he muttered to no one in particular. He walked out, carton in hand, wanting put as much distance between the goddamn store and himself.


	9. 6x05 - Mickey

_“Hey, Mick.”_

_Mickey groaned slightly in response, irritated at the redhead for interrupting his spiral of slipping into unconsciousness. “Go to sleep, Gallagher.” Ian didn’t respond to that, much to Mickey’s pleasure. The spiral resumed, slowly sucking Mickey into a comforting darkness that distracted him from the pitch dark tunnel Mickey called his life._

_“Miiicccckkkkeeeeeyyyy. I can’t sleeeeeeep.”_

_Holy fuck. Mickey opened his eyes, irritation condensing in his mind. “The fuck do you want me to do? Sing you a fucking lullaby?”_

_“I know other things your mouth can do,” the redhead responded wantonly. Mickey could hear the filthy smirk in his voice, situated on his perfect, freckled face. “It’ll kill the time.”_

_“Are you never not horny?”_

_“Apparently not,” Ian answered._

_“That was rhetorical.”_

_“Don’t give a shit. Come up here.”_

_“What?” Mickey questioned, confused._

_“Come up here.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Come up here.”_

_“Ian—”_

_“Come up here.”_

_“Holy crap, if that’ll make you shut up, then fine.” He got up and wiped the droplets of sleep still clinging onto his eyelids, trying to pull them down with all its might. He crawled onto the bed, next to the lanky redhead, and his hand traveled up to the warm neck. He was in deep; he was in a pit of Ian and he can’t seem to get out of the pit. “Happy?”_

_“Thrilled,” Ian responded and even in the darkness his pearly white teeth dazzled Mickey. “I can’t sleep.”_

_“You’ve said that already.” It was supposed to come out curtly, words forming in his head to chide the redhead for waking him up. But his tone was gentle, as if he was talking to a wounded animal whose trust he wanted to get, and the words that would’ve been tainted with scorn, was caught in his throat. All he could do is rub his thumb across the mound of Ian’s cheek._

_“Did you miss me when I was gone?” Ian inquired out of the blue, and moved closer so the tips of their noses were brushes against each other. Even the small touch sent jolts of electricity to travel down to his heart and shock the muscle. “Did you even think of me?”_

_Mickey’s first instinct was to push Ian out of his mind, not attach his soul to Ian’s as much as it already was. He wanted to slip on his ‘I don’t give a shit about anyone’ attitude like a sweater, but he couldn’t. The sweater felt too tight and itchy and just not right. So he went with Plan B—to be honest._

_“Yeah,” he admitted. “I thought about you a lot since your ass disappeared.”_

_“I missed you too,” Ian admitted and opened his mouth, hesitated, and then shut his mouth. Mickey wanted to dive in deeper, read Ian like a book because goddamn it, the boy was worth reading, each word worth cherishing. He was worth loving, even when Mickey couldn’t give it to him._

_The base of the pit that Mickey was in, gave way and he dove deeper, not being able to grasp anything solid to pull himself out. Maybe he didn’t want to pull himself out. Maybe he wanted to stay in the pit, where he felt warm and giddy and thrilled._

_Mickey’s eyes searched Ian’s in the grainy dark, wanting to look through what the cloak of darkness was hiding, wanted to see inside Ian and unlock secrets that Mickey didn’t know before. He didn’t know how to do that. He didn’t know how to make Ian open up like a flower in summer, blooming and showing the world its beautiful petals._

_So he did do what he knew how to do—he kissed Ian. There was no tongue, no desperation to feel each other’s hot skin under their palms. It was sweet, simple—unlike their past together._

_The push of Ian’s supple lips against Mickey’s own pair created spark upon spark upon spark until Mickey’s mind was ablaze and the negative voices finally, finally shut up. His lips made time stop and lurch forward at the same time. They felt like everything Mickey lost coming back to him in the form of a boy that he’s falling hard for. It was surprising; coming to the realization that he was falling. Maybe he’d land safely in Ian’s arms; maybe he’d meet the hard concrete and break all of his bones._

_He didn’t care what the aftermath was at the moment. He just wanted to relish on the emotion that lasted for now._

“Iggy!” Mickey called way too loudly.

“The fuck do you want?” Iggy shot back, narrowing his eyes frustratingly at his younger brother.

“Got some fucking coke?”

“Got some fucking money?”

“Yeah,” Mickey plastered on a grin. Iggy mirrored his grin, and held his hand out. “Get me the fucking shit first.”

“Give me the fucking money.” Mickey grumbled under his breath as he fished out the money out and reluctantly gave the paper to his older brother. “Was that so difficult?”

“Shut the fuck up and get me.. however much that’s worth.”

“It’s not much.”

“I don’t give a shit, just give it to me,” Mickey retorted curtly, giving Iggy his signature ‘what the fuck’ expression before heading back to his room, closing the door. Ian hadn’t been able to get out of his mind—as usual—and it frustrated Mickey to no end. The more Mickey indulged himself in work, the more Ian’s presence in Mickey’s mind became apparent.

Mickey hated it. He hated how Ian could still haunt Mickey wherever he went. He hated how a piece of Ian was always sewn into Mickey, never to be ripped out. He hated it.

What he hated the most was that thoughts of Ian was what he allowed himself to have. He wasn’t mad at the redhead; he could never be mad at the redhead. Ian could do no wrong in Mickey’s biased eyes. It was as if Mickey was wearing shades that skewed his vision and made Ian appear to be a saint in the mess of demons, a halo floating over his head, glowing in the darkness of Mickey’s vision.

Mickey was hurt and his hurt had contaminated his brain, contaminated his body until he was just a home for the ache that increased with each passing second.

Mickey wanted to just forget, even for a while, about the man that plagued his heart.

 

****************

Maybe it was the coke that brought him here. Maybe it was his heart that wasn’t in the clutches of his sober mind. Either way, Mickey was back at the White Swallow, his heart beating with faux joy, and his veins pumped with adrenaline. He was going to get laid tonight.

He peered up at the podium and the chiseled men dancing seductively, the ever-changing lights bouncing off of every dip and curve. Their moves felt forced, their sultry smiles even more forced. Mickey knew a man who would put all these ‘dancers’ to shame. He would look almost angelic as he did the dirtiest things to his body. His vibrant hair would look fiery under the harsh lights and his abs would make men’s mouths salivate at the thought of licking and kissing them.

Mickey shook his head—as if shaking his head would help him get rid of the thoughts, when all they did was cling on more tightly, adamant on not letting go—and made a beeline to the bar.

As soon as he straddled the stool, his eyes caught onto something that looked depressed and beautiful at the same time. His fiery hair was unkempt and his charteuse eyes were drained of his soul. He watched the strippers with an odd expression that didn’t touch his cold eyes.

Before Mickey could register what he was doing, he was walking over to the man. “The fuck are you doing here?” he said over the music.

Ian’s eyes landed on Mickey, and Mickey swore that he saw traces of the redhead’s soul come back. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m here to get a fuck.”

“So am I.”

“At your old fuckin’ workplace?” Mickey cocked an eyebrow.

The redhead shrugged, diverting his attention from Mickey back to the strippers. “Why not?”

Both men stayed in awkward silence, unspoken words floating above them, collecting together to make a heavy cloud. Mickey eyed his profile. Ian was gorgeous. His freckles stood out against the milky white skin, decorating his face and his neck that Mickey loved nipping. His pouty pink lips were pursed slightly and his chartreuse eyes were scanning the club.

Mickey knew he’d regret this when he was sober. He knew he would regret it when he realized what he was doing. But, fuck, Mickey wanted another taste of Ian. A tiny taste so his heart could be at peace.

It was just sex, so why not?

“You wanna meet me outside?” Mickey questioned, which made his ex whip his head to look at the shorter man.

“What?”

“Meet me outside,” Mickey responded, more confidently and sauntered out of the club like he owned the place. He leaned against the outer part of the building and was somewhat relieved when the redhead followed him out. “Got a condom with you?”

“What?” Ian repeated.

“I wanna fuck.”

“Mickey—” his ex started but Mickey didn't care what his reasoning was. Ian was either fucking him, or someone else will. Either way, Mickey was getting laid. Mickey pushed himself off of the wall, walking to the alley wordlessly. He wouldn’t turn to fuck his ex that he was still in love with. Both of them still craved each other, so it wasn’t a surprise to Mickey when Ian followed him.

When they were at the bowels of the alley where no one could catch them, Ian leaned in, and for a split second, Mickey was going to let Ian kiss him. But he turned around at the last second. Sex, Mickey can do without getting attached. He could detach his heart from his body when he was having sexual intercourse. Kissing, kissing was a level of intimacy that he wouldn’t allow himself. He couldn’t detach his heart from his body while kissing, because kissing to him usually meant words that couldn’t be spoken. And Mickey wanted to say a lot to the redhead.

He unzipped his pants and heard the small sound of Ian undoing his, biting his lip as a stringy, wet finger probed inside him. “Fuck.”

Ian didn’t say anything; he didn’t touch or speak or talk filthy like he knew Mickey would like it. But Mickey couldn’t focus on how he was hurting Ian, not when Mickey was hurt beyond repair because of Ian. Call it selfish, but Mickey never wanted to be altruistic.

“I’m good,” Mickey reminded him and bit his lip to keep his moans muffled as Ian thrust into him, grabbing his hips. He missed this. He missed when the two of them were fused together, where he could forget about his feelings for just a while. But that feeling was short lived as Ian jackhammered into him, replaced by pleasure and pain; not physical, the way it’d hurt when a man with a huge cock was fucking you, but emotional.

Tears leaked out of Mickey’s eyes as he could feel himself sobering up bit by bit. He refused to let Ian know that he was crying during sex, so he stayed quiet and listened to the small grunts that escaped Ian’s lips.

Ian came inside him, the liquid warming up his insides, and Mickey came as well, the feeling of the orgasm dulling due to the excruciating pain that came hand in hand with heartbreak. Mickey internally chided himself for crying as he did his pants and walked out of the alley, not once facing his ex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly didn't plan on making mickey cry during sex but it just.. happened.
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	10. 6x05 - Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: talks of abuse and prostitution.

It was established that neither Ian nor Mickey wanted to stop the sex. Ian missed how tight his ex’s ass was, and how Ian didn’t have to hold back when fucking. Call it unhealthy, but Ian didn’t care. He loved seeing the dark-haired man’s face contort in pleasure, teeth digging painfully into the billowy flesh.

What he hated about it was it wasn’t intimate. They weren’t touching or kissing, or using any foreplay. Ian had been used to it at one time—where he would only kiss Mickey in the depth of his dreams, and would imagine touching the soft skin and tracing the faded freckles on his face.

But after getting a taste of that, Ian’s fantasies weren’t doing anything but making him long for them more. He hated it. Every time Mickey looked at Ian with those cold eyes, the blade in his heart dug a bit deeper.

It wasn’t like Ian didn’t try to touch or kiss him; he did, but he was punched in the face by rejection, and his heart melted into liquid, pooling at the bottom of his ribcage. He hated how cold it was. He hated that when Mickey lowered his guards inch by inch, Ian kicked him to the curb and ripped his heart in half. He hated that Ian was the reason why Mickey’s guards were higher, stronger, and he hated that he couldn’t get inside.

“You can’t just let him do this to you,” Lip said one evening as Ian dug into his sandwich. “This is just hurting you. You need to let him go. You can’t be pining over a man who can’t seem to love you again.”

Ian knew his older brother was right and he hated it. He hated how Lip made it seem _so fucking easy_ when it was quite the contrary. Ian had been with the dark-haired man for years. They’ve grown up together—they faced being gay in a town where homophobes paraded the streets, ready to sink their fists in anyone who seemed slightly homosexual. They faced the aftermath of Terry’s ruthless punishment together. All of their problems were like lightning repeatedly striking both of them. Their bones had disintegrated into pools of what was, and they both built each other back up.

“You don’t get it,” Ian sighed.

“Then explain it to me.”

“Even if I did, you wouldn’t fucking understand,” Ian retorted, his irritation that he was so desperately keeping inside was oozing out of his skin, his demeanor changing from nonchalant to angry in a matter of seconds. His mask was cracking and all his emotions were peeking from the slits. “We grew up together, we faced the same challenges together. I pushed him to be proud of who he fucking was, and he was there for me when all I did was hurt him. You can’t just fucking walk out of what we’ve been through, so stop making it seem like it’s easy, because it’s not.” His hands trembled and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meds or his anger. He balled his hands up into fists.

“What other fucking choice do you have, Ian?” Lip questioned, baffled. “To be his fuckbuddy until he gets tired of you? To let him walk all over you?”

Ian leaned back in his seat. “You just proved my point. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, no, I do,” Lip responded. “I understand perfectly. I understand that he’s too fucking scared to man up and face his emotions and you’re too fucking whipped to leave. I’m worried about you.”

“Bullshit, you are!” Ian exclaimed. “You know what? You don’t have to go all Dr. Phil on my fucking ass when your own life is fucked. So why don’t you deal with your shit and your love life before you meddle with mine?”

“I’m just trying to fucking help,” Lip reasoned.

Ian scoffed. Lip didn’t help; all he did was remind Ian of how he deserved better and how Ian needed to get over Mickey and find someone else. Ian knew that Lip meant well, but it couldn’t help but aggravate the redhead when his older brother ran his mouth about how he deserved better. There was no one better than Mickey. Mickey was thrown into the foreign world of mental illnesses and figured everything out by himself. He loved with every fiber of his being, when he hasn’t ever gotten love from anyone before. His exterior was left in the dust as he walked away from it. Mickey reminded Ian how much he loved the redhead with every soft touch and every lingering kiss that awakened the emotions that his medication muted.

Traces of Mickey was everywhere Ian went; in his mind, on his skin, in his heart. Their souls intertwined, molding into one soul, and ever since that day, Ian felt like a huge chunk of his soul was ripped out.

“I gotta go,” Ian said and walked to the door, not wanting to deal with anything. He let the numbness consume him, coiling around him and digging its sharp talons into his brain. He knew one person that could make him feel better, and a different type of ache settled itself in him. The ache that you had when you thought of your best friend when you go through days without talking to each other.

He called Mandy, and he didn’t expect her to pick up. He didn’t expect her to talk. But she did, and relief washed all over him, flooding his heart and leaving his knees weak.

_“Hey, Ian.”_

“Hey, Mands,” Ian responded, a small smile on his lips. “I missed your voice.” He wasn’t lying. “Where are you? How’s everything? You still with Kenyatta?”

 _“One question at a time,”_ Mandy giggled. _“I’m good. Left Kenyatta’s ass a long time ago.”_ And she sighed—a sigh that held sadness and longing. Ian knew how she felt. _“I’m in Chicago. North side. Finally was able to get out of our shit town.”_

“Our shit town is shittier without you here,” Ian admitted.

 _“North side is shitty without you here,”_ Mandy admitted as well, which made Ian’s heart expand. God, he missed her. _“You free now? Maybe you can swing by. I just bought food, so we could watch movies and fucking.. catch up or some shit. I miss you.”_

Ian nodded, even though Mandy couldn’t see him. “I’m free now. Where in the North side do you live?”

 

****************

 

_"You taking me on a date, Ian?” Mandy grinned cheekily, as both of them walked, fingers intertwined. The chilly air tousled her dark hair and bit at Ian’s cheeks until they were rosy pink._

_“’Course I am,” Ian grinned, “gotta treat my ‘girlfriend’, right?”_

_“Where are we going, then?” Mandy questioned._

_“There’s a pizza place right—” his words caught in his throat as he watched Mickey and his brothers pass by. Blood was splattered on the dark-haired boy, and his charcoal hair was messy. His left eye was swollen shut as spots of blue and purple splattered around it, standing out like a sore thumb against his porcelain skin._

_It had been a couple weeks since Mickey and Ian started fucking, and Ian was getting attached. He wondered how those billowy lips felt against Ian’s own._

_Cerulean eyes landed on Ian, and they held a second of eye contact before Ian looked away. “The uh.. pizza place is right around the corner,” Ian mumbled before the two walked to the place. Ian looked over his shoulder to glance at his crush, who was too far away to notice the redhead looking at him._

_“You okay?” his best friend inquired._

_“Yeah,” Ian answered, chewing on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly. Did Mandy know about her brother being gay? Ian wondered what she’d do if he told her that he suspects Mickey’s gay. However, the dark-haired boy would rather die than admit that he wasn’t straight. The denial was a leaf of the root of internalized homophobia that Terry planted._

_“Honestly, I’ve never been on a date,” Mandy admitted._

_“Really?”_

_“Yeah.” She shrugged. “No one really thought I was worth spending money on.”_

_“Didn’t know my name was No One,” Ian responded. “I’m gonna spoil the shit out of you.”_

_“You are?” Mandy questioned._

_“Yes,” Ian responded like it was obvious. “You’re my girlfriend.”_

_Mandy sighed. “Why couldn’t you be straight?”_

The building that Mandy lived at was snazzy. It towered over every other building near it, the corners of its roof grinding against the clouds floating above Ian’s head. A layer of grey was painted outside, around the windows. The windows shimmered in the sunlight, giving the building a metallic look. All in all, it wasn’t too shabby.

The inside of the building reminded Ian of when he was manic and selling his body. He would be taken into buildings with the insides that looked like it was a set of a movie. Chocolate coloured walls contrasted the ivory white couches and the beige reception desk. The carpet that was placed under the couches were the colour of soot, and the bare floors were a shade or two darker than the walls.

Ian’s heart pounded in his chest, pushing against the wall in a desperate attempt to get out as he waited outside Mandy’s door. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He just was. The _clink_ of the door rang in his ears and Mandy was standing in the doorway.

She hadn’t changed much. Her hair was still blonde, except she had bangs again that shielded her dark eyebrows. Her clothes were new; they didn’t look worn out. Her cheeks had a pink tinge to it and her sapphire eyes glowed. She looked happier, healthier. Ian liked that.

“Hey,” Ian smiled.

“Hi,” she responded. “Come in.” She stepped aside to let her best friend in, the latter scanning his eyes across the apartment. It was small but it was nice. Unopened boxes were pushed to the corner. She had a couch that was the colour of caramel placed in front of a flat screen TV, and the top of the island of her kitchen was dark marble, shining in the dull light. “Upgrade from where I used to live, huh?” Mandy grinned proudly.

“Definitely,” Ian agreed.

“Sit,” Mandy suggested, gesturing to the caramel couch. Ian sat down and the comfort of the couch practically sucked Ian in. He never wanted to get off of the couch. “You hungry? Or thirsty?’

“I’m good,” Ian assured her. “You wanted to catch up.”

“I did,” she nodded and sat down beside the redhead. “Tell me about everything that’s happened.”

And so Ian did. He talked about his bareback porn—which he regretted deeply—and how he kidnapped Geno. He talked about how he kept Geno in the hot car for ‘God knows how long’ and how people called the cops. He talked about his hallucination and how he was convinced that demons were out to get him. He talked about the psych ward, and how the MPs got him, and how he left with Monica after the MPs let him go. He talked and talked and talked until the well of his mouth was dry and his throat felt like cotton.

Mandy’s eyes were as big as saucers when Ian finished. “Shit,” she breathed.

Ian snorted in amusement. “Yeah.”

“How are you and Mickey?’

“We tried being just friends,” Ian explained, “but that didn’t work out when I said I love him. And then we saw each other at the White Swallow and fucked.”

“You’re still fucking?” Mandy questioned, even though her voice didn’t raise at the end.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’s just so..” Ian sighed when he realized that he shouldn’t talk about fucking Mickey to his sister. “Never mind. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Mandy responded dismissively, “what do you mean ‘I guess’?”

“Mandy—”

“Tell me.”

Ian sighed. He knew how stubborn Mandy could get. “It’s cold. He doesn’t let me kiss him or show any form of.. intimacy with him. It fucking sucks.”

“Yeah, I bet.” It was Mandy who sighed. “I don’t know Mickey as much as you do. But he’s hurting. A lot. Which is why he won’t allow himself to.. I guess, get attached? I dunno, I’m grasping at fucking straws here.” She ran her skinny fingers through her dyed hair. “Give him time. But you can’t just.. wait for him. That’s not fair for you.”

“And what have I done this past year that was fair for him?” Ian questioned. Mandy didn’t answer; she just furrowed her eyebrows. It was Ian’s illness that hacked his body and made him hurt his ex over and over again, take pieces of him until there wasn’t anything left to take.

“Wait it out,” Mandy decided to say. The duo stayed in silence, Ian’s mind being infiltrated by thoughts, slipping through the cracks of his brain and slithering down to his mouth. There were a lot of things that Ian wanted to say but didn’t know how to.

Suddenly the attention on his problems were too much. He felt a heavy weight on his chest, like someone sitting on it. He didn’t like thinking of his problems and he didn’t like talking about it either. Fiona was wrong; talking didn’t help shit. Talking made him acknowledge the word pushed back into his mind, made that word fill him up from head to toe. Usually the word would scratch at his head, begging for attention.

“How’d you end up here?” Ian questioned, looking at his best friend. She seemed startled by the interruption of the silence.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

She sighed. “Kenyatta and I moved, a lot. From state to state, sometimes. He’d let his hot head get him fired, which meant I had to quit _my_ job and look for another one every couple of weeks. We’d get into arguments frequently, because I was mad at him for making me go with him, and he’d be mad at me for being mad, I guess.” Ian snorted in amusement and Mandy laughed. “Yeah, exactly. Fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?

“Anyways, I met this man at my new workplace, which was at Wendy’s. And he was obviously hitting on me. Told me he has a great job for me. Gave me his business card and told me to call if I was interested. I talked to Kenyatta later that night about it and Kenyatta flat-out said no. ‘That was sketchy as shit, Mandy, you can’t trust a man that you met at your workplace,’ he said.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I agree with the asshole,” Ian interrupted.

“Yeah, I agree with him now as well,” Mandy agreed. “I called the man on my day off while Kenyatta went to work. I wanted to leave the place. Anything was better than Wendy’s right? So I said I wanted to work for him without asking what it was. When Kenyatta came home later that night, my dumbass told him what I did, and he _flipped._ He was angry as shit, and beat the shit out of me. I didn’t think I’d live to see the next day, Ian, he was so fucking mad.

“After he was asleep, I left. Just.. took my shit and split. I couldn’t stay there anymore, not with Kenyatta. The man I called before had let me stay at his apartment, and explained his line of work.”

“What was it?”

“Pimping out prostitutes,” Mandy answered. “I was desperate at this point so I thought, ‘sure, whatever keeps a roof over my head and food in my belly’. I worked for him for a couple weeks with five other girls. He’d take us to these fancy ass parties, tell us who our clients were, and sat back and let us do the rest. So I did. But he gave us so little compared to what we got. Like.. five percent of what our clients paid.

“We all stayed in this tiny little apartment which he initially promised that he’ll pay for the rent and food, but he changed his fucking mind and told us that if we wanted to stay, we had to work harder. After a while, this girl, Alex thought enough was enough, and urged all of us to come up with a plan to leave. ‘He can’t treat us like fucking sex toys,’ she would say. ‘We’re humans.’

“No one agreed but me. So Alex and I quit and were immediately kicked out, and it was back to working at fast food restaurants for me. After a while, I got fucking desperate. So I started escorting, because sex is apparently the only thing I was good at. I saved up enough money to book a plane ticket here, and stayed the nights with my clients until I finally had enough to get an apartment of my own. And now, here I am.”

Ian didn’t know what to say. Mandy look put together while inside she was broken. She was new paint that was thinly covering the cracks underneath, giving an illusion of ‘put together’. He opened his mouth to speak but only a gush of air flew out.

“We’ve both had a fucked up year, apparently,” Mandy sighed.

“Apparently,” Ian echoed. Mandy scooted closer to the redhead and rest her head on his shoulder.

“I missed you so much,” she admitted. “Out of everyone, I missed you the most.”

“Thought you were pissed at me for dumping Mickey,” Ian responded.

“I wasn’t pissed, exactly, I was.. upset.” She chewed on her lip. “Also, with everything going on—”

“I know,” Ian interrupted. “I get it.” They fell into a comfortable silence, Mandy’s story floating around in Ian’s brain, muting any other emotions or thoughts. Ian was slightly grateful for it; he wasn’t focusing on his own fucked up life. “Can I crash here for the night?”

“Yeah,” Mandy answered, “yeah, you can.”


	11. 6x06 - Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: substance abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge 'thank you' to my mickey for helping me out on this chapter!!

_“You gotta be eighteen.”_

_“Yeah, I.. figured away around that.” He fingered the lace that was dangling on his chest._

_“You serious? You signing up?” Mickey questioned._

_“Tomorrow morning.”_

_“That’s a dumbass fucking move. How long?” His head was filled with a mantra of ‘don’t leave, please don’t leave,’ which drowned out any other unwelcome noise cluttered in it. Ian couldn’t fuck off to the army. As selfish as it was, Mickey needed him to be with him._

_“Four years. Minimum.” Ian’s words and uncannily calm expression splintered his heart into tiny fragments of hurt. A ball formed in his throat and he swallowed it down, the lump scraping his throat and leaving a burning sensation in its wake. His mantra increased, creating a dull throb in the back of his head, pounding against the cranium._

_“What are you hopin’, I tell you not to go?” Mickey questioned, gathering the pieces of his ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that was blown into oblivion. His voice quivered and thickened, replicating the emotions he shoved deep down inside him, which were now spreading all over his body, making his heart bleed. His tongue darted out and licked the corner of his mouth. “Imma chase after you like some bitch?”_

_“I didn’t come here for you.” He turned around to leave the room. Mickey didn’t want the redhead to leave his room, leave his life for who the fuck knows how long. ‘Don’t go, please don’t go.’_

_“Don’t.”_

Alcohol, Mickey learned, did nothing to remove Ian from his mind. It was the glue that held that piece in Mickey, secured him tight, when all Mickey wanted to was rip it out. Ian was there when he opened the bottle and he was still there when Mickey got to the bottom of the bottle.

It was also the gate that opened the fuckton of thoughts and emotions that Mickey kept locked up, let the emotions swarm Mickey and infiltrate his mind until that was all he was thinking of. There were ‘what if’s and ‘why did’s and ‘how come’s and any other question that Mickey didn’t have the answer to.

His mind echoed with the question of _why didn’t you just tell him to fucking stay?_ He knew the answer to that. It was carved into him, written on his skin, like a tattoo. Except that Mickey regretted having the tattoo and didn’t have enough money to get it removed.

He was scared. He was scared of Ian and Terry and Svetlana and the fucking baby in her stomach. He was scared of falling in love and he was scared of Terry finding out. He was so fucking terrified to finally just let his love shine through the slits of his mask, to tell Ian to _fucking stay, maybe we can work things out._ Ian knew, he knew how scared Mickey was and threw it in his face.

_“You’re a coward. You’re afraid to be who you are.”_

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for him to pick up. _One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four—_

 _“Hey, Mick,”_ a monotonous voice greeted him. His voice still sent chills down Mickey’s spine, lightly brushing Mickey’s nerves and frosting the lining of them. Mickey swallowed the lump down his throat, down to the pit of his stomach where he forced it to stay.

“Why’d you leave that day?” Mickey questioned.

_“What?”_

“After I married Svetlana,” he clarified, “Why’d you leave? I mean, I know it was because of me, but did you never think about me for once? How _I_ felt?”

He heard a rustle, which he assumed was because of Ian moving. _“I did. Why’d you think I crashed your fucking wedding?”_

“And you thought we’d fucking make it out alive?” Mickey questioned. Salty water rolled down Mickey’s face in tiny droplets.

 _“Why are you asking me this?”_ Ian questioned. _“Are you drunk?”_

“That’s not the fucking point.” Mickey wiped the tears away angrily. “You know what I wanted to say to you that day? I wanted to tell you not to fucking go, to stay with me.”

There was silence on the other end. _“Why didn’t you?”_

Mickey pondered that question. It was right on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be released and never be able to taken out. His teeth lightly nipped the tongue, making Mickey eat his tongue yet again. But eating his tongue was what got both of them into this mess. His stomach was filled to the brim of words that he wanted to say. Mickey sighed and scratched his eyebrow.

“Because I was fucking terrified,” Mickey forced it out. “Of-of Terry, and.. you.”

_“Me?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Why were you terrified of me?”_

Mickey sighed again. “Not you, specifically. I was scared of falling, I guess? And being in fucking love. I don’t fucking know.”

_“You scared of me now?”_

“No.” He rubbed his forehead. He needed a release, anything to distract him from the dark places of his mind. “Come over.”

 

****************

_Ian had been quiet ever since they walked out of the clinic. Mickey knew why. They both felt dread over the same little tidbit of information that the doctor gave. Mickey wanted to punch the bipolar out of his boyfriend, wanted to carve out the tainted part of himself so he didn’t have to deal with the illness. He couldn’t._

_“30 to 40 fucking years.” Ian scoffed, as if the information was ridiculous. It was. It was a huge chunk of their lives worrying about Ian’s pills and Mickey waiting for his next episode. Mickey didn’t care how long; he was in it for the long haul. But it was different taking care of someone who was mentally ill and having a mental illness. Even Mickey knew that and he was pretty new to this world of disorders. Pity coiled around his gut and he tried to pry its tendrils off, but it clutched on tighter._

_“Hey, we’ll do this together,” Mickey promised._

_“I don’t want to do this at all,” Ian retorted. “I don’t want you to fucking take care of me when you aren't obligated to take care of me.”_

_“Who the fuck said I was obligated?” Mickey questioned. “I’m doing this because I love you.” He tried to ignore the hurt nipping at his heart when Ian didn’t return the words. He couldn’t blame his boyfriend for not returning the words; he was frustrated and upset. But it didn’t hurt less._

_“You don’t owe me shit because you love me,” Ian muttered._

_“I don’t,” Mickey agreed, “but I’m still gonna get through this shit with you. Ride or die, Ian. Ride or die.”_

Mickey wiped his nose, his porcelain skin smudged with crimson, the snowy lines almost gone. The jubilation settled itself inside Mickey, leaving him eerily tranquil. He sniffed and put away the coke, grabbing a beer and chugging the bitter liquid down.

The soft _tap, tap, tap_ on his door distracted him and he answered it. A lanky redhead was standing, cheeks tinged pink due to the harsh night. “Hey.” Mickey was suddenly aware of the crusty blood on his cupid’s bow, standing out like a sore thumb. “You don’t look good.”

“I feel amazing,” Mickey responded and let Ian in, before walking to his room the redhead following suit. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

He wanted anything else other than the silence that stretched between them. A short answer, or Ian joking around and saying that he ‘wouldn’t miss another fuckfest’ but nothing came out.

Mickey shut the door and fumbled with his pants, when the redhead stopped him. “I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Why?”

“You’re fucking drunk and coked out,” Ian deadpanned.

“So?”

“I doubt you’d be able to get it up.” Mickey chewed on the inside of his cheek and got on his knees in front of the redhead. His mouth salivated at the thought of taking his ex’s cock in his mouth and tasting the precum.

“No, Mick, stop,” Ian sighed.

“Why?” the dark-haired man repeated.

“This isn’t right.”

“Then you just came here for no fucking reason,” Mickey stood up and looked into those charteuse eyes that were clouded with despair and something else that Mickey couldn’t put his finger on. Mickey could almost feel his heart expanding in the restraint of his chest.

“I guess I did,” Ian agreed. “Night, Mick.” He turned around to leave Mickey’s room. Mickey could feel their souls ripping at the seam, forced out of their comforting touches.

_“Don’t.”_

_Ian turned back around, mystified. “Don’t what?”_

_“Just..” Mickey’s eyes brimmed with tears and his lip quivered ever so slightly. ‘Don’t go, please don’t go’ were on the tip of his tongue, but his teeth ground into them, crushing the words into fragments. Ian turned back around and walked out of the doorway._

“Stay,” Mickey whispered feebly, which made the redhead stop and turn around. Mickey swallowed hard. “Stay,” he said, a bit louder, more confidently. “Please.”

And Ian did, despite Mickey initially pushing him out. He forced the shorter man lay in bed and tucked him in. He took care of his ex, instead of leaving. “You should go to sleep,” Ian suggested, standing beside the bed that Mickey was lying in. “It’s really fucking late.”

“I know how late it is, Firecrotch,” he responded, “I can read clocks.”

Ian smiled at the old nickname, and Mickey memorized it in his hazy brain. How his jaw was slightly crooked and his smile was lopsided and goofy and beautiful at the same time. How his smile ignited a candle inside Mickey, and set his mind ablaze. Mickey wanted to keep that smile hidden away and look at it whenever the world was too much to bear.

“I’ll sleep on the couch, if you want me to,” Ian responded.

“No,” Mickey shook his head. “There’s plenty of fucking room here.” Maybe he was too drunk and coked out to realize that this was a bad idea, and maybe his fuzzy mind muffled the sirens in his head that only went off when he let the redhead too close for comfort.

Ian complied, crawling in next to him. Mickey’s brain was working way too fast and the filter that usually trapped words that weren’t allowed to flow out of his mouth wasn’t working. Mickey’s fingers traced the freckles on the redhead’s face, soft touches meeting soft skin. He almost felt a crackle of electricity when he touched his ex. He missed it so fucking much.

Ian, who had his eyes closed, seemed to miss it as well. Mickey’s fingers threaded through the auburn hair. It was as soft as Mickey remembered. He did everything his sober self wouldn’t allow him to, while sleep was about to pull him under. He forced his eyes to stay awake, to relish in the feel of the copper hair beneath his fingers.

“I don’t want to just fuck,” Mickey admitted, his brain working way too fast for his body.

“What do you want, then?” Ian asked, opening his eyes and searching the coked out man’s face.

“For us to be the way we were.” Mickey swallowed the lump in his throat and let go of the hair, his hand falling limply between the two. It was centimeters from his ex’s face. Sleep finally possessed him and he closed his eyes, missing the ‘I do, too' flying out of the redhead’s mouth.


	12. 6x06 - Ian

For the first time in months, Ian has been able to sleep for more than four hours. Maybe it was because of the comfort the body brought him. Maybe it was because of the fact that his ex had inched closer to him in his sleep; at first it was sliding his cold feet between Ian’s calves. He slowly curled into Ian’s chest, nose brushing the redhead’s Adam apple.

Even in their sleep, they couldn’t help but gravitate towards each other.

When Ian woke up however, he was met by cold, unmade sheets and faint sounds of _clinks_ outside his door. His heart felt half again at the lonely wake up, as he wiped the traces of sleep in his eyes, hanging onto his eyelids for dear life. Ian’s body didn’t ache with longing, and he didn’t feel miserable. For the first time in a long time, he felt.. tranquil. Not numb; where the numbness would snake around his brain and slither down his body, frosting everything inside him. Calm; like when the clouds are drizzling water and you’re inside your warm house, sipping on a hot beverage and curled up on the bed with a good book in your hands.

Peaceful, like you had survived a storm that destroyed everything you knew, picked up the pieces, and prepared for the warm weather afterwards. Like everything that was lopsided and turned upside down and inside out had been straightened out and stabilized, organized by colour and size, and neatly put away in their respective spaces.

Ian had never felt that until he’d met his piece of sunshine that was in the form of a dirty boy with a gruff attitude and two hearts—one nestled between his lungs and another in his cranium, at the back of his brain, ignored by some and admired by others.

He had padded into the tiny table that his ex was seated in, wolfing down pancakes. He didn’t spare a glance in Ian’s way, which initially disheartened the younger man, until he realized that Mickey didn’t know he was in the room. “Hey.”

The older man looked up. “Hey.” He diverted his attention back onto his plate. He wasn’t eating anything, however; he was picking at the food, like his stomach had decided that he’d chowed down enough.

“Milkovich, you take care of Ge—” she stopped in her tracks as she stared into a pair of emerald eyes that she once used to tolerate. Her arms around her child were tighter, protecting Geno away from the man who took him away from her during an episode. Ian wanted to kick his teenage self for not getting help earlier and for self-sabotaging everything that was good for him.

Ian was in one side of the room, Svetlana and Geno in another, and Mickey in the middle. Ian thought about how their positions replicated the battle that Mickey was in ever since Terry caught them fucking. However the man in the middle took no notice of the crackling tension in the room.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Svetlana sneered.

“He stayed the night while you were out working and shit,” Mickey responded with a shrug. It was so much more than that. Mickey begged the redhead to stay. He uttered the word that Ian had died to hear the day Mickey and him parted ways after marrying a hooker. He talked about how he wanted them to be together. He caressed Ian’s face and ran his fingers through Ian’s hair and let Ian fall deeper into the tunnel that was Mickey Milkovich.

He knew where he stood. And he was so tired of it. He was tired of falling in love with a man that was too scared. It drained the life out of him the way his love drained bottles of liquor. He was an empty glass bottle that was thrown away, and he was tired of it.

“I’m gonna go get my stuff and go,” Ian mumbled, walking back into the room and putting his clothes on. The feeling of peace was gone in a flash. It was a taste of what Ian wanted; not worrying about his next step and not pining over his ex. It was a taste—a droplet of water and Ian was thirsty for more. He had always been thirsty for it, but now he had to realize that he had to get up and go find more water elsewhere instead of hoping that he’d get more water at the area he was in.

“You’re gonna leave?”

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, and turned to his ex, whose sadness was slowly oozing out of the cracks of his demeanor. He slapped on duct tape on the cracks and stood up straighter. “I can’t be around somewhere where I’m not wanted.”

“You are,” his ex argued.

“Bullshit, I am,” Ian scoffed. “I said I’m sorry, Mickey. And I said I love you. And I waited, and waited, and _waited_ for you to be ready. I listened to you for once. And now you want to fucking act like what we had was nothing. Like you don’t fucking love me.”

“You can’t just fucking make me feel like shit for not being ready for a relationship,” the dark-haired man argued, ruddy eyebrows drawn together.

“And you can’t make me feel like shit about what I did in the past,” Ian countered, rounding up on his ex. “You can’t make me feel like shit about stuff that I couldn’t help.”

“Then how come you made me like shit when you left to join the army?” Mickey questioned, eyebrows raised. “Hm? How come you made me feel like shit when all I wanted to fucking do is get you on your meds, so you won’t do crazy, irrational shit?”

“Well, we’re fucking even now,” Ian spit out, “congratulations.”

“This ain’t about getting even with you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well it feels like it is.” Ian ground his teeth so hard he was afraid they might shatter. As if his life couldn’t get any worse. “I can’t fucking win. I’m either treated like a fucking baby or people remind me of what a _fuck up_ I was and still am to this day.” He grabbed his coat and stomped out of the door, walking out, and not looking back.

 

****************

_“Take your fucking jacket off,” his boyfriend ordered. Their foreheads were pressed against each other, his warm breath fanning out against Ian’s mouth. The cold didn’t bug him. All he was focused on was the buzz of the alcohol flooding his veins, destroying every negative thing, coupled with the intoxication he got from breathing Mickey’s scent in._

_“Watch it,” Ian warned, and shrugged off his jacket, while his boyfriend reconnected their lips. Their tongues gelled against each other as Ian walked forwards and his boyfriend walked backwards, against the fence. His cock was straining against his pants as his boyfriend desperately mouthed at his freckled neck._

_It has been way too long since they’ve lost themselves in each other. Mickey was a land that Ian knew every crevice and bump of, but always managed to get lost in the depths of his soul, the chambers of his heart, the details of his skin, the softness of his lips. He was intricate and every inch of him Ian wanted to devour, wanted to lock away in his mind and let him clear up the fog that detached his brain from his body._

_They both undid their pants, and the shorter man turned around, presenting his plump ass to Ian. Ian’s arm snaked around him and slipped his stringy fingers into his boyfriend’s wet mouth, an inaudible command for Mickey to suck, and so he did. When Ian was sure that his fingers were wet enough, he pulled them out and breached the beautiful man’s puckered hole._

_“Fuck,” Mickey breathed as Ian expertly opened him up, the other hand grabbing his ass and kneading the soft mound. “I’m good, I’m good, get in me.” Ian pulled his fingers out and sleeked his cock with spit, before slowly inching inside his lover._

_“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian groaned as the other man let out soft grunts, rolling his head back onto Ian’s shoulder. He turned his head so their eyes could lock into each other, sending thoughts of ‘I love you’s and ‘please don’t ever leave me’s. Emerald on sapphire. The dark-haired man’s eyes were always wells that were iced over, and Ian broke the film of ice, saw the water of emotions._

_Ian angled his hips to meet Mickey’s prostate, making his boyfriend’s face contort in pleasure. Mickey pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, their tongues messily gliding against each other. Ian painted his boyfriend’s insides with cum as Mickey came all over the fence and himself._

_For the first time in a long time, Ian felt content and it wasn’t because of the alcohol infiltrating his mind and pooling in his stomach. It was the man in front of him that warmed his way into Ian’s heart and taken over every inch of Ian’s body._

That was the last happy memory that they had with each other. Last time they had kissed. Last time they relished in their sliver of happiness before bad luck had come around the corner to ruin them both. And this time, it did ruin them. It broke them in half.

Ian had missed when he was able to drink and smoke weed. The alcohol would distract him and the weed would lift him off of his feet and lighten the world up for him a bit. He was stuck with medication and dealing with the reality of his fucked up life.

Mandy had picked up on the third ring. _“Hey,”_ she greeted.

“Hi,” Ian said back and swallowed down the hurt, it scratching his throat and making his throat bleed. Mandy had a lot going on, he didn’t want to add more. But she was his best friend—she knew when Ian was upset. And she knew _who_ Ian would be upset over.

 _“What happened with Mickey?”_ she questioned.

“How’d you know it was Mickey?”

 _“Instinct, I guess,”_ she answered. _“Also, Mickey hasn’t been responding to his calls her texts, and he only does that when he’s upset. The only thing that can actually get to him nowadays is you.”_

Ian swallowed again, but it wasn’t hurt he was swallowing down. It was a concoction of bitter emotions that was stronger than any alcohol that was available. “We had a fight.” And he filled her in about the night prior, and the morning afterwards. He talked and he talked and he talked and his best friend listened, only making noises of disapproval and clicks of her tongue.

 _“He’s.. an asshole,”_ Mandy concurred, _“he shouldn’t have held your mistakes against you. That’s not right. But you shouldn’t have held his hurt against him.”_

“I didn’t hold anything against him.”

 _“You held the fact that he can’t be in a committed relationship against him,”_ Mandy answered. _“Look.. you don’t need to wait for him. But you are. No one asked you to wait. Mickey didn’t. I didn’t. We suggested it and you took that suggestion. You could’ve walked away and never talked to him again. But you didn’t. That was an active choice of yours, and you can’t just.. use it against him whenever._

_“And all the crazy shit you did last year.. you weren’t thinking straight. You didn’t have the fucking capability to do that. With stealing Yevgeny and hurting Mickey. That wasn’t you, Ian. I know who you are like the back of my hand and that just wasn’t you. I’m not saying that you’re not accountable for your actions and he’s not accountable for his, I’m saying that you guys need to let shit go and stop defining you. You still love each other very much and it’s time to just.. fucking.. start over.”_

“When the fuck did you get all wise?” Ian laughed and sniffled, wiping away the tears that he didn’t know was released, rolling down his face. “It just.. hurts because I’m sure he doesn’t love me anymore.”

 _“I have a few years of experience under my belt.”_ Ian could hear the smile in her voice. _“He does love you. You wouldn’t have an impact on him like you do now if he didn’t. He just doesn’t wanna.. audibly admit it, I guess. I’ll talk to Mickey. Get through his thick fucking head.”_

“You don’t have to.”

_“I don’t but it’s fucking frustrating when my brother and my best friend, who are clearly meant for each other, keep breaking the fuck up.”_

“Jesus, alright,” Ian smiled. “I’ll come visit tomorrow, okay?”

 _“Yeah, okay.”_ And with that, she hung up. Ian couldn’t help but feel cold in the absence of her company. Like walking out of a place with the heater on full blast, greeting the harsh wintry cold outside. The wind felt harsher than it was, sinking its teeth into your skin and taking flesh out. Ian hated it.

So he watched TV and went on the family laptop, and scrolled through his phone and slept; did anything to push the creeping time forward, but nothing did. He hated it.

A harsh rap on his door distracted him from his TV, and he grudgingly got up to answer it. He didn’t know what he expected to see behind the door. What he _didn’t_ expect to see, however, is a broken man with disheveled charcoal hair, and ruddy eyes drawn in pain, and eyes tinged with red.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Ian moved out of the way to let his ex in, and closed the door.

“Mandy called.”

“Yeah?”

“Chewed me out for being a fucking asshole to you,” Mickey responded, “my ears are still ringing from her just yelling.” He took tentative steps towards the redhead, but each step grew a bit more confident.

“Yeah, that happens when she’s pissed at you,” Ian responded. He knew his response was dumb, but he couldn’t concentrate on much, now that his ex’s face was centimeters away from his own. His tattooed fingers caressed his neck like the night before.

“You know how many fucking nights I stayed up, just thinking of you?” his ex questioned. “How many times you crossed my fucking mind.” His thumb rubbed at the skin underneath his hot palm. “You’ve wormed your stubborn fucking self under my skin. Can’t get you out, and believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to push you away, and you just come crawling back and I.. I let you.” All Ian could see was warm sapphire eyes, orbs that he was falling into deeper and deeper. All he could feel was the warmth radiating from Mickey’s body. All he could think of, were billowy lips.

Ian pushed any inkling of self-control out the window and pressed his lips against his ex’s, threading his fingers into inky black hair. Mickey immediately reciprocated, chewed fingernails clawing at the clothes that covered Ian’s skin. Their tongues glided against each other as their lips stayed parted, as their bodies molded into one.

It was paradoxical; how his lungs were deprived of air but he still felt like he swallowed a lungful of oxygen after being robbed of it for months. They burned and his body wasn’t used to the gush of air, but his heart was finally working, his blood was finally pumping, and he finally felt alive.


	13. 6x07 - Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: homophobic slurs, depictions of violence, and mentions of rape.

“How’d you do it?”

The pads of Mickey’s fingers ghosted lightly over the pink scabs on the redhead’s right palm. Even though it had been months since the incident, Mickey thought that the slightest touch might send a wave of pain and that was one thing that Mickey didn’t want to do; hurt the redhead. His sapphire eyes were trained on the scabs, not noticing the perplexed expression on the younger man.

“Hm?”

“How’d you burn your hand?”

“Oh,” Ian sighed and moved onto his back, tattooed fingers still circled around his wrist and the other set of fingers lightly touching his palm. “I burnt myself.”

“You _what?”_ Mickey’s eyes snapped up to the side profile of the man he loved. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I was still adjusting to the meds,” Ian explained, turning his head to look at the shorter man. Chartreuse eyes bored into sapphire, at such intensity. The film of numbness crumbled in the crackling electricity between them. At one point, Mickey hated the electricity that snapped and crackled between them, hated the shock that he’d get, so he’d look away. However, he didn’t look away at the moment. “They made me feel.. empty, almost? Well, not almost. They _definitely_ made me feel empty. Numb. I hated it. Wanted to feel something, so I put my hand on the grill and burnt myself.”

The explanation that Ian gave didn’t float in the air around them, while they laid in the small bed at the Gallagher residence. It was shoved down Mickey’s throat and made him choke. He didn’t know what to say—all of a sudden their locked gaze was intimidating. His fingers abandoned the right arm and cradled the back of his love’s head like it was an egg—like Ian might break at the slightest pressure—and kissed him.

Even when their relationship didn’t make sense, their kisses and touches did. The touches sent flames that licked his brain and killed every fear, every intrusive thought, with its deadly touch. The kisses swept Mickey off of his feet and taught him how to fly.

Ian was fire and Mickey was engulfed by him.

Peeling their lips away, Ian looked at the shorter man in curiosity. “What?” The redhead shook his head and looked away. “What, Gallagher?”

“Where’d you learn how to kiss like that?” Ian blurted out.

“Don’t really fuckin’ know,” the older man admitted. “It’s not like I was smoochin’ everyone I fucked.”

“You weren’t definitely smooching me.”

Guilt coiled around his torso and tightly. “I did, after a while, right?”

“Yeah, after I pushed,” Ian responded. “It’s like whenever I push you to do something, you do it.”

“It’s not pushing, it’s calling me a pussy and then threatening to leave,” Mickey sighed. It was the redhead’s turn to feel the nasty feeling of guilt.

“I did do that a lot, didn’t I?”

“I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Mickey confirmed, “I mean, I’d get really fucking impatient if I were you. Would’ve left a long ass time ago.”

“Well, I was in love with you,” Ian admitted. “Still am.”

Mickey wanted to say the words so fucking badly. Shed his past away like skin that was too uncomfortable, start fresh, look into those gleaming emerald eyes and say those words back. But he couldn’t. His past wasn’t a layer of skin that he needed to shed; it was fermented into his bones, coursing through his veins, littered all over his brain. It was who he was. The hurt, the sorrow, the heartbreak, the denial, the internalized homophobia, that was all him. So he watched those emerald eyes go from amorous to crestfallen, before growing the film of numbness back that clouded his eyes, and internally admonished himself for not being able to grow fucking balls and say them back.

Instead, his fingers flitted to his collarbone.

_“I was twelve when I broke my collarbone,” Ian admitted with a shy grin. They were in Mickey’s bed the night before both their lives changed for the worse, talking about their previous injuries and how they got them, trying to outdo the other._

_“How?” Mickey questioned, ruddy eyebrows drawn in confusion._

_“I was playing soccer with Lip,” Ian explained, “and he was dribbling the ball, and I was trying to get the ball away from him. One of his legs were outstretched and I didn’t see, tripped on his leg, and fell onto my shoulder hard.” Mickey’s heart quivered at the thought of the redhead in pain. He wanted to lean over and kiss the collarbone, kiss the freckled neck above, but he held himself back._

_“That’s juvenile shit,” Mickey scoffed._

_“What’s worse than having your collarbone broken?”_

_“Uh, getting shot twice,” Mickey pointed out, which caused the redhead to let out a hearty laugh. His heart did a weird flutter thing; like it had grown its wings, stretched it out, and struggled to fly out of its cage it was shoved in ever since he was born._

_“Okay, yeah, fair point.”_

Ian’s eyes glinted in the dull glow as Mickey’s fingers flitted over them. “I still think your injury is juvenile shit.”

“Of course you do,” Ian laughed slightly, and traced the light pink scar on Mickey’s face. It looked like a hairline, nothing gory, but Mickey could still feel the feel of the back of a pistol colliding with his skull, could still smell the harsh sound that the blow provided, and still could remember the black dots dancing in his sight, as his brain turned fuzzy, trying to keep him conscious.

_“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid.”_

Maybe all the muscles in his face twitched, cracking under the pressure that his brain was giving, and giving way to the pain and trauma that he kept hidden away from plain sight, because the redhead quickly moved his long fingers away from his skin and threaded them through inky black hair.

“I’m..” Mickey swallowed, his throat feeling scratchy and dry, “I’m fine.”

“It’s fine to be affected by that, Mick,” Ian said.

“I’m not,” Mickey denied.

“You were raped that day, it’s fine to be affected by it.”

‘Raped’. The word had seeped into his head and made him feel like a victim, and he was no goddamn victim. He had gotten softer as the years went by but the softness of being labelled a victim was unappealing and revolting to him. It made bile rise up to his throat as disgust throttled him.

Mickey got out of bed. “I wasn’t raped.”

“Mickey—”

“I wasn’t! Okay? So don’t fucking act like you’re my shrink, cause you’re not! Shut the fuck up and stop talking about shit you know nothing about!” Mickey practically snarled. His walls were hoisted back up as he pushed the word and Ian out, but crumbled at the despair he saw in that freckled face. He covered his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I..”

“It’s fine,” Ian said, and opened his arms, “come back here. Please.”

The desperation in the redhead’s voice made Mickey crawl back on the bed and into awaiting arms, and any traces of the need to protect himself melted away as strong arms were wrapped around him. “You were there.”

“Yeah,” Ian responded.

“Why don’t I remember that?” Mickey questioned, inhaling the sweet scent of the redhead.

Ian pulled away just a bit to look at the shorter man. “You don’t remember that?”

“No.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah.” Ian looked at him, bewildered, and suspicious. “I’m fucking serious, Ian! I don’t remember any of that shit.”

“How?”

Mickey looked up at those emerald eyes full of concern and confusion. “I don’t know.”

 

****************

Mickey didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he did, and it was in Ian’s bed. Stringy fingers were circled around his wrist as a lanky arm held him in place, his back against a strong, broad chest. The sluggish feeling of sleep fogged his brain as the gears groaned in complaint when Mickey tried working them again.

Slowly, he pried the fingers off of his wrist and walked out of the room, relishing on the quietness of the house. The buzzing of adolescents and the litter that was the Gallaghers always were bouncing off the walls and wafting through the doors for others to hear. Mickey always had thought it was obnoxious when music pounded in the house, but he remembered that his neighbors probably thought the same when Terry went on his drunken temper tantrums.

_“No son of mine is gonna be a goddamn, AIDS monkey!” Terry growled, punctuating each word with punches, each one harder than the last, bone colliding with bone._

Mickey closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, exhaling shakily. Energy had been drained from his body as he slumped against the wall, every inch in his body spasmed with fear that poisoned his heart and made it beat ridiculously fast. _Fuck, get a fucking grip, you pussy._

“Leaving so soon?” a voice called and Mickey turned around to see a bleary eyed redhead, auburn hair sticking out in all directions, resembling copper wires. The energy seeped back in as the poison was pumped out from his blood and slowed his heart.

“I have this thing called a job,” Mickey teased, “you probably don’t fucking know what that is.”

“Ouch,” Ian responded in mock hurt. “Didn’t think you’d hurt me this way.”

Mickey shrugged and peeled away from the wall, immediately regretting it as the tremors didn’t leave his system. “Life’s full of surprises.”

“Apparently.” Ian’s grin subsided. “When are you getting off?”

“6,” Mickey answered, “why?”

“You think you can squeeze in a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah,” Ian bit his lip.

The fear had come back. Mickey swallowed hard and stifled the urge to show any traces of anxiety. “I thought I told you I wasn’t ready for relationships, Gallagher,” he responded, crossing his arms.

“It’s hardly a relationship,” Ian argued.

“It’s the start of one.”

“Will you go or not?”

Mickey thought of this. Did he want to go on a date with Ian Gallagher? Yes. Hell fucking yeah. But his fear loomed wherever he went and clouded his mind and opinions. The skeletons in his closet were out of the closet, decorating his room, and staring at him with the holes of their sockets, burning their images into his brain.

“I’ll go with you to eat,” Mickey answered slowly, as if his mouth was tasting the words as it flew out.

“But not as my date?”

“Not tonight,” Mickey responded, “some other time.” He walked out of the Gallagher residence, leaving the redhead to ponder how he made rejection seem so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trauma can affect someone's memory in different ways. it can make someone's memory about the traumatic event vary, which is why mickey can't remember the fact that ian was there when he got pistol whipped and raped.


	14. 6x07 - Ian

_Thoughts were cluttered in his head. Words were perched on top of others, and his brain ecstatically buzzed with ideas that weren’t processed enough to be let out into the world. Ian would write, and write, and write until his hand was cramping and he had managed to pluck every thought out of his head and place it onto the blank paper._

_The previous couple of weeks—after him leaving the army—were all a blur; mushing together in a collision of colours and faces and bodies that Ian couldn’t decipher what exactly happened. His insatiable lust that always lingered in his lower abdomen had controlled his actions, so grinding on patrons’ laps turned to going home with men who were way too old to be with him._

_The money, coupled with the party favours, was what made Ian addicted to the thrill and the blur and rush of it all. He had thought he could leave his old life behind, work as a stripper and sell himself. It wasn’t the best idea but it was an idea._

_He didn’t let himself think of the boy that broke his heart the last couple of weeks. He couldn’t. Every time he thought of charcoal hair and piercing blue eyes, the blade lodged into his chest would dig deeper, rip his skin, let more blood ooze out. He didn’t stop himself from thinking about Terry, and all the ways he’d get his revenge for ripping two souls that were bound together, and throwing them in the trash._

_But when the boy did make a reappearance in his life, he wasn’t the happy and equally frightened boy Ian remembered. He was a miserable man, sapphire eyes replicating his battered soul and broken heart. And it angered Ian. He chose this life. He chose to be with his wife, and not Ian._

_Ian couldn’t remember being taken back to the Milkovich household but there he was, with a pregnant Russian glowering at him. The clusterfuck of the night prior had left him back in his hometown, in the room that he didn’t think he’d see again for a long time._

_“So you left,” a husky voice said. Ian knew who that voice belonged to. No one could make the apparent knife in his chest disappear like that voice. “Took all your shit.”_

_“Your bride threatened me with a claw hammer.”_

_Words appeared in his brain and he scribbled them down on the blank page in front of him._

Ian had long forgotten about what he was looking for when his hands had found the ratty notebook that he left to collect dust. Sitting on the dirty carpet, he leafed through the papers. The _ruffle_ of the pages being flipped filled the quiet air as he tried to decipher his manic brain.

None of it made sense, and each page got worse than the last. Some were of poems, others were just him jotting down how he felt. When he got to a blank page, he grabbed a pencil and positioned it over the page, the tip grazing the smooth object. He didn’t know what to write. The page stared back at him, waiting for him to do anything but stare back blankly.

The _creak_ of the door opening prompted him to hide his notebook and look up. “Hey, I said dinner’s ready,” Fiona informed his little brother.

“Yeah, I..” Ian tried to think of an excuse to satisfy his sister but his brain was as blank as the paper. “Sorry.”

“You okay?” she inquired, her eyebrows drawn in concern.

“I am.”

“You can come to me for whatever you want, Ian,” Fiona reminded the redhead, “I hope you know that.” Ian did; very well. Whenever he seemed too depressed or too angry or too happy, she’d wring her hands and her forehead would have more creases than Ian would be able to count. He ran his stringy fingers through his copper hair.

“Alright,” Ian said coolly, exhaling sharply, trying to let the irritation evaporate into air and leave with the carbon dioxide. He couldn’t get anyone off his back—the more he seemed stable, the more they clung on, holding onto him, which made his back and knees sore.

“Okay.” She put her hands on her slim waist. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Ian could almost feel her grip on him get deathly tight. He knew her love life was a train wreck, and she still had yet to clean up the mess it had created, but Ian’s was a plane crash and the pilot was his fucked up head. However he had _no fucking idea_ how to clean up the mess.

A chant of _don’t do it_ echoed through his mind. His teeth had the urge to bite his tongue and leave dents just so he wouldn’t say anything. But his tongue was a slippery fuck. “I have.. problems.”

More creases formed on her forehead. “What kind of problems?”

“Mickey problems.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “What’d he do?”

“It’s not what _he_ did. Jesus, Fiona.” Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand why you always turn your nose up at him. He’s not that different than us. And he’s treated me better than anyone I’ve ever been with. He came out for me, he went to clinics with me, he held me when I was down, he loved me. While you were busy with your fucking marriage, and Lip with his college shit, he took care of me, only for me to fucking throw it in his face and dump him for it. I’d appreciate it if you gave him a break.”

Fiona stared at him for a while and then nodded. “Okay,” she said finally.

“Huh?”

“Okay,” she repeated and sat down next to him. “But Ian.. you can’t wait for someone who doesn’t want to date.”

“He will,” Ian responded confidently.

“And how do you know for sure?”

Ian hesitated. “I.. I don’t. But.. we can’t just end this way. We can’t. Can we?” The desperation in his voice that he tried to shove back into the pits of his stomach, came out of their hiding spots and slithered slowly up his throat. It had gotten him the look of pity that he was so familiar with, which made him avert his gaze from his sister.

“I don’t know,” his older sister answered truthfully. “I hope it does.”

"That makes two of us."

 

****************

_“You love me, and you’re gay,” Ian said. “Just admit it.” He struggled onto his feet, the skin that the dark-haired boy just punched throbbing, coupled with his heart strings snapping at the force of his heart breaking. “Just this once.” It twisted into a plea, his heart at his mouth, operating his tongue. “Fucking admit it!”_

_A fist collided with his jaw, making him fall to the ground. If Ian wasn’t in so much pain he would’ve sworn he saw Mickey’s eyes shine with a film of unshed tears before he turned his back._

_“You feel better now? You feel like a man?” Ian mocked. As soon as those words flew out of his mouth, Mickey’s shoe connected with his face, and he could see his bloodied tooth flying out of his mouth while stars littered his vision._

_“I feel better now.” Mickey walked away, leaving the redhead writhing in pain, the coppery taste of blood momentarily distracting him from the sharp words and actions that stabbed his heart like a blade._

His fingers flew over to the pink line on his chin where Mickey’s shoe connected, as he tongued the hole where his tooth once was. The scar blended in with his freckled skin, but was prominent whenever Ian looked in the mirror, ugly in all its glory.

He hadn’t known why he had come to the place when he heard faint gunshots above him. _Mickey._ It had been his favourite place to be, the abandoned buildings with the paint curling off, holes that once used to be windows, and walls that were crumbling in on themselves.

As he walked up, his ex had glanced at him, before his sapphire orbs had fixated on the aim, his gun in his hands. “You gonna fuckin’ follow me wherever I go, now?”

“I could leave, if you want,” Ian answered. _Don’t tell me to leave._

“Nah, I don’t hate your existence,” his ex responded. “You’re good.” The loud sound of a gunshot going off ricocheted in the room, as a bullet pierced the dummy’s heart.

Ian let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. They had shifted from awkward to comfortable, but not where Ian wanted to be just yet. He sat down on the dingy floor, eyeing the paint that was peeling off in ugly curls. “It’s been years since I’ve last been here.”

Ian could see Mickey’s body tense up; fingers gripping the glock so hard that his knuckles were white, and Ian could almost hear his teeth breaking due to how hard he was grinding them into each other.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Forget it.” A bullet pierced the left thigh. His voice wanted to be as sturdy as a tree, but it was as weak as a plant without no roots to hold it down. And how do you make a plant strong when it has nothing to keep it grounded?

They stayed in silence—well, as silent as it could get, with Mickey firing off bullets—before Ian decided to stab the silence with a knife in the form of words.  “Carl’s out of juvie.”

“That right?” Mickey responded, sapphire eyes darting to the corner, glancing at the redhead.

“Yeah,” Ian nodded. “He’s.. changed.”

“Newsflash, Gallagher,” his ex said, finally putting his gun down. “Juvie changes people. Especially when you’re fuckin’ in there for like, what, a year?” he had put his glock away while the auburn-haired man watched. “You gonna stay here with your hand in your pants, or are we gonna leave?”

Ian got up with a devilish smirk. “I mean, you could put your hand in there. Keep it nice and warm.”

His ex grinned. It was a smile that lit up his face, formed crinkles around his eyes and warmed his harsh sapphire eyes, the veil of anger dissipating. Ian’s heart flew up to his mouth as he smiled back and got up, dusting the loose dirt off of his pants.

“I’ll think about it,” Mickey responded before they descended to the ground below them.

Every day, Ian thought he was closer and closer to breaking the barrier that he built between them. Maybe one day, the barrier would be gone for good, and his walls would finally let the redhead in and keep him in.

One can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was so short and crappy. i have writers block and apparently me forcing my brain to work isn't a good idea.
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	15. 6x08 - Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of rape, homophobic slurs

Love was never something that stepped foot in the Milkovich household. Maybe it would turn the corner on Zemansky, and bolted, leaving nothing but the stench of alcohol and the thunderous roars bouncing off of the walls. It was never lively, it was never happy. It was cold.

Until Ian had taken residence of the house. Even when he was manic, he managed to slip love into the place. And it was foreign and felt like new pair of shoes before you broke into them. But once you did, they were snug and comfortable and soft, and you never wanted to take them off, until you lost it, and now you’re upset because they were your _favourite fucking shoes_ and you had taken good care of it.

Now no other pair of shoes felt right, no matter how many times you walked in them, no matter how you broke into them. Nothing felt the fucking same, and you were frustrated at yourself for letting it slip through your clutches. But you had to make do with the ones you had, right? No point in thinking of the past when you can't do shit about it.

Except Ian wasn't a pair of shoes. He was a human that showed love, and at first Mickey was revolted by it, wanted to turn the other way, but a greater force pulled him back into the arms that he so direly missed, and he let himself be absorbed by love. Until it was snatched away from him.

_"You can't fix me, cause I'm not broken. I don't need to be fixed, okay? I'm me!"_

What Ian didn't understand was that Mickey didn't think Ian was broken. He didn't think Ian was lost. Ian was whole and he knew the land like the back of his hand, so there was no way he could get lost. Mickey didn't fucking care if the redhead wouldn't take his meds.  _Thick and thin,_ the dark-haired man had said.  _Good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit._

He wanted to laugh at himself for being so invested into something that wasn't going to end well. He knew that it'd all go to shit; he knew that whenever things were going smooth, there would be a bump in the road, or a pothole, or maybe they'd be involved in a crash, because nothing goes smoothly for long for Mickey Milkovich. Every time it does, it's usually preparing him for the destruction that was right around the corner.

The wail of Geno was what made Mickey snap out of his spiraling thoughts that only lead him to snort coke or drink until he passed out. He walked up to the crib that the child was in, and sighed. “The fuck do you want?” Mickey questioned, his voice surprisingly not menacing, while picking his crying son up.

People had talked about how they had instincts that was programmed into themselves when it came to babies. Mickey thought it was a load of crap, because no parental figure of his had known what to do when he cried as a child, only ignored him until he got tired and fallen asleep. Geno was different; he had a parent that cared about him and looked after him.

Mickey tried to be the other parent, be a father and love him. But he could barely keep the nauseous feeling at bay. Love was so easy when it came to Ian, and the redhead hadn’t been something that was related by blood. He was a man who had managed to weave himself under Mickey’s demeanor. Geno, with his hair the colour of hay and his green eyes that stared up adoringly at his father, was harder to love than Ian ever was.

“What the fuck do I do with you?” Mickey sighed and rocked the baby, feeling silly while doing that. But Geno seemed to calm down, as he rested his puffy cheek on his father’s broad shoulder and sucked on his thumb. Mickey could taste bile.

_Mickey saw tits. He felt a woman sit on his lap, trapping his hips with her knees. This was wrong, this was so fucking wrong. He was on the line that separated consciousness and unconsciousness. However, his head turned to the redhead seated beside him, staring at the dingy floor in front of him._

_He was trapped. He was in a cage, and Terry made sure he didn’t escape, while Ian—his freedom—was a few feet away from him, tangible, being dangled in his face._

_Mickey would’ve reached out to the redhead but the bars were too thick._

His hand gripped the nearest thing; the edge of a table. Flashbacks would plague his mind and knock him off of his feet, and leave him more wounded than he was before. Putting the now-asleep Geno back in the crib, he had grabbed a beer. It was cold and smooth against his warm and calloused hand, and as the effervescent _hiss_ of the beer can flooded his ears, he had calmed down a bit. It was a small chunk out of the huge ball of fused emotions in the pit of his stomach.

He trudged to his room and sat on the bed, plagued by memories he didn’t want to remember but were _still fucking there,_ still surfaced every once in a while just to remind the man that he had lost the only good fucking thing in his life.

_“Can’t sleeeeeep,” the redhead said, stretching the second word out until it was thin._

_“Again?”_

Alcohol had burned his insides, replicating the fire that Ian had brought to him. He had crushed the beer after draining it, the metal film giving way to strong fingers, cracking under the pressure.

_“Do you ever get tired of writing?” Mickey questioned one day as he watched his boyfriend scribble away._

_“No,” the redhead responded. “It’s like.. a shrink, but without me paying for a shrink with the money I don’t have.” He paused, emerald eyes landing on his boyfriend. His hand was placed on the page, pencil poised over the smooth object. “Why?”_

_“Why what?”_

_“Why the sudden question, babe?”_

_“Told you not to call me that,” the dark-haired man sighed, shaking his head. “It’s gay as shit.”_

_“Gayer than having a dick in your ass?”_

_Mickey chuckled. “Yeah, gayer than that.”_

_“I think nothing could be gayer than that.” He had put his book away and had settled himself in between his boyfriend’s knees, doing quick work of undoing Mickey’s sweatpants._

_“Don’t know, sucking dick is probably gayer than that. I mean, willingly swallowing your boyfriend’s jizz? Gay.”_

_Ian laughed; a hearty one that had left Mickey’s head spinning and his heart racing. “Shut up and let me suck your fucking dick.”_

_And the dark-haired man let him do just that, sighing while the warmth of his boyfriend’s mouth and the pressure of his talented tongue had swept Mickey off his sturdy feet._

It had been 2 AM when Mickey had had enough of the loneliness and put his mouth in the craving, let it suck him in and create scars that he’ll worry about in the morning afterwards. So he had called the redhead, even though the rational side had reminded the dark-haired man that his ex was probably asleep.

 _“Hey,”_ a voice flooded his ears.

Mickey’s heart raced in fear immediately, thoughts swarming his head, destroying all sense of logic in him. But the anger that had growled in his chest reminded him that he shouldn’t be worried. That even if the redhead is manic, it was _his_ problem now. Not Mickey’s. “Why the fuck are you still awake?” Mickey questioned, his tone taking a gentle tone.

 _“Can’t sleep,”_ the redhead sighed. _“I don’t feel manic,"_ he added hurriedly.

“I don’t care,” Mickey responded and ran his fingers through his messy charcoal hair. He was fooling himself. Every step Ian took had Mickey paying close attention to it, making sure it was in the right direction and that he wasn’t stepping back into the mess he had just crawled out of.

He should just turn his back and let the redhead walk back into the mess if he wanted to, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away.

Ian must’ve known, because he didn’t sound upset when he responded with, _“why are you awake?”_

“I’m fucking wasted and lonely,” Mickey admitted, momentarily surprised by his honesty. The loneliness—coupled with the alcohol—ate away at his sleep until there was none left. Until Mickey was wide awake, eyes struggling to close, and his brain was thrumming with thoughts that only trampled the barricade built inside him to stop them from surfacing.

_“You want me to come over?”_

_Yes._ “No,” Mickey denied, “you’re not my fucking plaything whenever I’m bored.”

 _“You’re not bored,”_ the redhead responded, _“you’re lonely.”_

“Stop using my fucking words against me.”

Ian huffed out a laugh; it was a ghost of a laugh that used to bubble in his chest, but had died out. When did it die out? Mickey didn’t know. _“Do you want me to come over?”_

Mickey sighed, rubbing his palm over the stubble that was growing over his face. “Don’t.. don’t come to my place. The last time you came here, it wasn’t really.. fuck, what’s the word? Pleasant.”

Ian let out another ghost of a laugh. _“Where, then?”_

Mickey gnawed on the inside of his cheeks. “The bleachers?”

 _“Okay,”_ the redhead agreed, _“I’ll be there in ten.”_

 

****************

The redhead had been sucking on a cigarette when Mickey had got to the bleachers. He rubbed his big hands together, and shoved them into the pocket of his jackets. If Mickey hadn’t known him, he wouldn’t have thought that the redhead had grown up in Chicago. It seemed like the wind would seep inside his skin and chill his bones.

In his defense, the wind was probably planning to do that to everyone who walked out in the dead of night.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted and reached over for the cigarette dangling between the redhead’s lips. “Forgot my pack.” He placed the stick between his lips, and inhaled the cancerous smoke. It had been a while since he had been able to smoke, and he almost sighed out loud at the feel of the tainted air snaking its way down his throat, and filling his lungs.

He could feel the tense knots in his muscles finally freed, as he exhaled the smoke through his nose and handed the stick back to his ex.

“I’m guessing you haven’t smoked in a while,” the redhead mused with a playful smirk.

“You guessed right.” Maybe it was the relaxed stance he had. Maybe his brain had finally shut up. Maybe he was finally at peace. But the question that had formed in his head, finally was able to climb up his throat and poured out of his mouth, giving the redhead a glimpse of the worry he had kept up. “Why are you up this late?”

“Have a lot of shit on my mind,” the redhead answered vaguely. “I have _you_ on my mind.” He took a long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowed a bright orange. Mickey could only keep his eyes trained on the glow disappearing and then reappearing, realizing it was _too fucking hard_ to look up into those emerald eyes. “I miss what we had.”

“What we had is gone now,” Mickey responded, a bit too curtly.

“Don’t.. don’t say that,” the redhead said, hurt evident in his voice. It was the wobbly part of his tone, the softer edge, and it had gripped Mickey’s heart tight, squeezing it as hard as possible.

“The fuck else am I supposed to say?” the dark-haired man grumbled.

“You love me.” Mickey didn’t respond to that. It would’ve been a lost cause to deny it. He did; his feelings were presented to everyone, and he couldn’t pluck them out of everyone’s memories and crush them to oblivion. So he grinded his teeth instead, hoping that maybe his tongue wouldn’t reveal something else that he kept inside him. “And I love you.”

He didn’t feel anger rise up his throat, and he didn’t spit anger out like it was venomous. Instead, he felt the hollow feeling of sadness. Where were those words when he wanted to hear them the most? Where were they when Mickey went fucking insane, blowing the redhead’s phone up when he had left again?

The absence of them, had created bullet wounds inside them that won’t heal no matter what they did. They were infected and gory and Mickey couldn’t afford to go to a hospital and go get medication. ‘I love you’ was just medication that should’ve worked to heal the wounds, but didn’t.

“Don’t,” Mickey started, and this time, the redhead understood. Or maybe he didn’t, Mickey didn’t know. He placed his hands on either side of the dark-haired man’s face, forcing Mickey to look up into those sad eyes that looked like they were on the brink of crying.

“I love you,” he whispered before softly pressing his lips to Mickey’s. And Mickey reciprocated their kiss, his head spinning and his fingertips tingling, itching to touch the redhead so fucking close to him. So he did, because his self-control had crumbled the minute the redhead came barging in with the tire iron years ago. Even when Mickey tried to build it back up, it would fall apart in his hands.

He hated himself for giving in, and he hated his body for reacting so positively to his ex. It ached; it was a dull throb that Mickey would register, but it was washed over by the pleasure of Ian, the scent of Ian, the existence of Ian.

He hated himself for loving the redhead.

 


	16. 6x08 - Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you to my mickey for giving me a prompt!

_Frank had drunk himself until he was a storm of anger that destroyed anything he laid hands on. Then again, he did that while sober as well. Ian could still hear the screams from inside, as he sat inside the dirty car filled with lice parked in front of his house. His ears made a dull ringing sound that reverberated, and he wanted nothing than to rip out the bell in his brain that was going off, and throwing it onto the gravel._

_Ian wanted to cram his stuff in a bag, leave, and never look back, like Monica did so many years ago. But he wasn’t like his mom; he’d never be like his mom. Besides, where would he go? It wasn’t like he knew an ample amount of friends who would swing open their doors before Ian could ask if they could fit in a tiny redhead in their homes._

_No one had liked him at school. They picked on the brown specks littered all over his face, or his wild red curls that couldn’t be tamed, or that he didn’t seem to take interest in girls like they did, even though they were all ten. They’d call him ‘gay’ and he wasn’t gay; he couldn’t be gay._

_Could he?_

_The door of the dingy car  opened, and his older brother had sat inside wordlessly. “Don’t know why we still have this shitty car, when we don’t even use it.”_

_Ian picked at the skin around his nail bed, emerald eyes fixated on the pallid skin. His fingertips squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until he gave up. Irrationally frustrated by his skin, he turned to his older brother. “Yet you’re still here in the ‘shitty car’.”_

_“Yeah.” He looked at the redhead like he was stupid. Maybe Ian was stupid, but he let the subject drop to his feet, kicking it in the corner, disregarding it. “We can see the stars tonight. That’s rare.”_

_“I think stars are stupid,” Ian grumbled, not understanding the change of subject._

_“Why?”_

_“I just do,” Ian shrugged._

_“I think they’re cool.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Cause they sometimes make shapes. The Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.” He pointed at the dark sky stretched tight over them. “They look like pots, with really long handles.”_

_“I don’t see any shapes.”_

_“Look,” his older brother probed, and connected multiple stars with his finger, as if his fingers were a pen and they were playing Connect-the-dots. But Ian saw it, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sky, so open and wide and dark, with the sun shedding light on everything, or the stars decorating the clear jet black sky._

Toying with his phone in his hands while the house was hushed, as if the buzz was put on pause. Ian would know in a couple hours that the ‘play’ button would be pressed, and he’d be forgotten like he always was, melting into the background, not spared a glance.

He liked how the night and silence went hand in hand. The sun would go to sleep, and so would the business of everyone else, and Ian would be lost in the darkness, except that he didn’t mind being lost. Maybe he didn’t want to be found, maybe he wanted to stay in the darkness, away from plain sight.

Ian staying up late has caused looks of concern and eyebrows that were drawn together, but he wasn’t manic. He didn’t feel the thrumming of energy under his skin just waiting to be released. It was like all the energy migrated into his head and had gotten thoughts and memories to come out of the woodworks and stand in the spotlight. Anyways, he’d conk out as soon as sleep decided to dominate his body.

As usual, Mickey was the reason why he was up. He always crossed Ian’s mind, and probably didn’t look both ways before running across the redhead’s brain.

Maybe he should move on, try to fall in love with someone else’s quirks instead of obsessing over his ex’s. They had fallen in love, but you don’t always end up with your first love, do you? They give you a sample of love, and rarely does that sample become a lifetime supply.

But maybe Ian wanted to savour this for longer than he was supposed to.

Ian still saw the way his ex looked at him; like Ian had raised the sun high up into the world that emitted a soft glow and warmed everything up. Like he was the only good thing that Mickey has ever gotten in his life, the only happy memory that Mickey wanted to hold on for as long as possible.

But a memory was a snippet of the past, right? In time, they fade away, or sometimes they tuck themselves into corners of your head where you don’t look, but sometimes come out when you think you’ve lost them. They were stored in your head, like photos in an album, and sometimes you’ll take out that album when you’re upset and look at the photos.

Ian turned his phone on and called the only person he wanted to talk to, even though it was well past midnight. He counted the rings, and heard the _click_ of the call being received on the fifth ring.

 _“What?”_  His voice was thicker, a heavy coat of sleep surrounding it.

“Hello to you too,” Ian smiled slightly.

 _“I was fucking sleeping, bitch,”_ his ex grumbled.

“Oh. Do you want me to hang up? Let you sleep?”

There was a rustle on the other end, which Ian figured was the dark-haired man moving. _“Nah, man. If you didn’t call me and wake me up, Geno would’ve anyways by his obnoxious crying.”_

“He’s a kid, Mick.”

_“Doesn’t make it less obnoxious.”_

Ian tried laughing—a genuine one, but all that was let out was a loud exhale through his nose in the absence of a laugh. “Svetlana still doesn’t trust me with him does she?”

 _“Don’t think so,”_ his ex replied, _“she thinks you’re gonna go fucking bonkers again and kidnap him. She won’t fucking understand that you won’t do that again. I'd inform her about it, but she's fucking irritating and I get headaches just by having civil fucking conversations with her, let alone arguments.”_

“I get it,” Ian sighed, running his fingers through his coppery wisps. Guilt coiled around him and left him nauseous and upset. Like Monica, he had done something incredibly irrational, and, like Monica, he had hurt the people who did nothing but love him. “You not obligated to explain it to her.”

 _“You know, people don’t always fucking do what they’re ‘obligated’ to do. Sometimes they do shit just because they want to, or they think it’s the right thing to do,”_ his ex countered back, his tone curt. _“So can you fucking.. stop with the ‘obligated’ shit?”_

Ian stayed silent, processing his words. “I guess I can,” he finally managed to let out. Then, after a couple beats of silence, "thank you."

 _“Fuck off, Gallagher,”_ the dark-haired man responded, sniffing uncomfortably. Ian could almost see him nudging the side of his nose with his thumb; something he does when he’s uncomfortable or nervous.

“No,” Ian said. “Thank you for putting up with me. For loving me, even when I did stupid and crazy shit, like making a porno and not using a condom for fuck’s sake. Or, like kidnapping Yevgeny and running away. I don’t fucking know why you stayed with me when I did shit that should’ve destroyed you, destroyed.. us. And I’m thankful for that.”

There was silence on the other side. Ian thought his ex hung up on him, but he heard loud exhale rumble from the other side of the line. _“Yeah, sure, whatever.”_ That was the closest to ‘you’re welcome’ the redhead was going to get, so he settled for that. What he didn’t settle for was the silence that stretched out between. So he decided to fill it.

“It’s pretty late,” he mumbled pathetically.

There was a bark of laughter on the other end. _“You just fucking realized that? You didn’t realize that before you woke me up?”_

“You didn’t have to pick up, you know,” the auburn-haired man pointed out.

 _“Yeah, but I wanted to,”_ his ex replied. _“Refer to what I said, like, five minutes ago.”_

The fact that Mickey wanted to hear Ian’s voice, and wanted to talk to him, sent a jolt of electricity that buzzed under the layer of his skin, and ignited a fire he thought was put out for good. It had felt good; like everything he had lost had come back to him in waves, and he was engulfed by them. “I gotta go. I have to give my GED the next day, will have to get some shut eye as well.”

 _“Look at you, bettering yourself,”_ his ex said. Ian could hear the smile in the dark-haired man’s voice; the smile had honeyed his voice and made it as gentle as a feather. _“Go get some sleep or I’ll go to your fucking place and make you take Ambien.”_

Ian tried to laugh again; but it was a huff more than anything. “You won’t have to do that. Night, Mick. I love you.”

There was silence that enveloped their conversation; as if his ex was contemplating saying what was balancing on the tip of his tongue. _“Night, Ian.”_  The _click_ of the phone call being ended made Ian seem strangely empty; like a huge chunk of him was gone with Mickey. Maybe it was always gone, always with Mickey. He didn’t know.

All he knew that the caress of darkness wasn’t soothing anymore—it made Ian feel more alone than he did before.


	17. 6x09 - Mickey

The evening spread its wings to cover the blue sky from the city, as Mickey smoked another cigarette, wrapped around the filter, eyes trained on the ash creeping up the stick slowly, as time trickled by. He had wished that the cigarette was weed and he could drift in the sky like the cotton veils of clouds above him. He had wished for a lot and had gotten none in return.

Southside had been stamped with tidbits of Ian wherever Mickey went. The dugouts, the abandoned buildings, even his own fucking house, and he could feel the frost from those tidbits chill him. So he went to the Northside, in hopes of shaking the redhead off of his back. But it wouldn’t leave; memories of when he retrieved Ian from The White Swallow would fill his head, and memories of Ian going on dates and sipping wine that was made around the time Jesus was born, and not with Mickey, loomed in his head.

It was like bits of the redhead was in Mickey; under his skin, in his veins, around his body like a cloak. But the cloak was so comfortable and the traces made the uneasiness go away. Was it unhealthy? Yes. But Mickey didn’t give a shit.

He didn’t know which ones bothered him more—the ones where Ian was beside Mickey, cracking juvenile jokes or smiling that lopsided smile that grew on Mickey as the time went by, or the ones where he was alone fucking closeted geriatrics and grinding on laps of men while coked out.

As he stumbled upon a bar, he swung open the door, eyes immediately scanning the place. After years of drinking at the Alibi, the swanky bar had seemed like a piece of castle to the dark-haired man. The bartender was friendly—way too friendly for Mickey’s liking—and was amazing at making the drinks Mickey asked for. The place was glistening with the glow of the bright lights above them, and the bar was smooth and clean; opposite of what Mickey was accustomed to.

The soft _clinks_ of chimes bumping into each other was disregarded by Mickey, who wanted to drown his sorrows with the bitter taste of alcohol, but the fuckers learned how to swim. “Hey, Amanda,” the bartender chirped enthusiastically which made the bitter drink taste even more bitter.

“Hey.”

Mickey could feel himself tensing up; as if his brain shut down and the muscles inside him turned off. But the only muscle that was still working was his heart, which wanted to leap out of his chest. “Sorry, I was caught up with work yesterday, and I was done long after the bar closed.”

“How fuckin’ long have you been here?” Mickey questioned when the frost around his tongue finally thawed, getting his tongue to work again.

Icy blue eyes landed on Mandy. “Didn’t think this was the type of place you’d be at.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“I am,” she admitted. She has changed; her clothes weren’t ratty or skanky; they were elegant. She fit right in the atmosphere of the snazzy bar, like an object put on display. She was less like the tough, confrontational Mandy Mickey had known ever since he could remember, and more like a broken, vulnerable version of his sister. Mickey bet he looked the same—broken, vulnerable. He took another swig as Mandy added “should’ve told you sooner.”

“Why?” Mickey questioned. “Not like we were fucking close.”

“Did Ian say that I was here?” Mandy asked.

“Kinda,” Mickey answered and took another sip.

_They were at the bleachers the night Ian held onto his face and kissed him under the stars, acting like the kiss never happened and that love wasn’t radiating out of both of them. Mickey was high—or drunk, or both—and he looked over to the redhead._

_“What?” Ian asked._

_“You talk to Mandy now?”_

_“Yeah,” he answered. “She’s good. Back in the state.” He chewed on his lip. “She’s been through a lot.’_

_“You don’t need to dish out the details, Gallagher,” Mickey shook his head, and stared out in front of him. The open field in front of him reminded of memories that was staring back at him, scratching at his eyes, laughing at his face about how better his life was._

_He hated it._

“He said you were back in the state.” He shrugged and took another sip.

“How’s everyone else?” she inquired, a glint of hope. “Dad in jail? How’s.. Lip? Does Ian talk about his family? He hasn’t talked about Lip. I don’t think he wants to focus on the day we broke up.”

“For good fucking reason,” the dark-haired man responded.

Mandy laughed. “Yeah.” Both siblings stayed there in silence, Mandy sipping on her fruity drink while Mickey sipped on his beer, million thoughts running through their heads. Mickey wondered what was running through Mandy’s, wondered what he’d find if he dug into her mind and found treasures kept away from the naked eye to see. Was her mind as fucked up as his was? The silence stretched out as thin as possible until it was on the verge of ripping in half. Thankfully, Mandy ended it before it ripped. “How’d we get this mixed up with two Gallaghers?”

Mickey snorted in amusement. “We were misguided little shits?”

Mandy laughed—a real, genuine one. “Yeah, probably. I mean, they’re also kinda stupid for mixing with us. We were like.. the Southside version of the Bougeyman. Everyone told their kids to stay away from us.”

“No one gave a shit about their kids, Mandy,” the dark-haired man pointed out.

“True.” And they had awkward conversations, but it was the longest civil conversation they’ve had. Mandy had offered Mickey to drive him home, to which Mickey had turned down, but later agreed when he realized how drunk he was. Escorting had changed her as a person. Or maybe living in the Northside did, with all the rich motherfuckers. Made her blend in to her surroundings, like a chameleon, changing colours depending on her environment.

But her natural colours would always stay under, hide, and they would only come out when she was back home, when she felt at home.

The drive was short, and uncomfortable. Mickey had wanted to leave as soon as possible. When she left the Northside and entered the Southside, her cerulean eyes took in the gentrified neighborhood. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” the dark-haired man agreed. “Yuppie motherfuckers took over the place.”

“And you didn’t stop them?”

“Tried to, once.”

_Mickey’s hurt had morphed into anger at the hipsters that moved into their shitty town, trying to replicate the city that he robbed from so many times. He didn’t let himself think of Ian. His mind was a house, a house which the redhead didn’t belong—he can get a warm bed and a meal from any other fucker he cheated with._

_“Let’s not stand around with our dicks in our hands, gentlemen,” Mickey said, smothering his anger._

_“Alright, give me the spray paint.” The blond held his hand out for the can that they didn’t have. What the fuck did he think the Milkoviches were, rebellious teenagers in school? For fuck’s sake._

_“Spray paint?” Iggy asked incredulously._

_“We’re not TP’ing the goddamn principal’s house, Phillip,” Mickey stated mockingly, and held out two guns. “The M16 or the AK?” Lip stared at the guns, ocean eyes reflecting fear and regret, like he was a bear that walked right into a trap, and the trap clamped around his paw. Except this wasn’t a trap. This was to deny Mickey’s suspicions that the blond had washed out the Southside dirt from his skin, and was clean as a whistle like the other students at his university. “Or are you afraid you’re gonna lose that McMansion?”_

_Lip looked like he made up his mind. “Give me the AK.”_

“Did he go through with it?” Mandy asked, her voice rising a pitch in interest.

“No, was too pussy to,” Mickey answered. “When the police came, we ditched him.”

“Where’d he hide?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” His eyes landed on the rickety house when the car crept towards it. “My stop’s here.” He undid his seatbelt once the car slowed to a stop, before opening the door, letting the crisp air waft in.

“Hey, Mick?” Mandy inquired.

“What?”

“Give Ian a chance, okay?” she said. “He’s been.. talking to me about you guys. He does seem sorry about everything that happened. You do know everything that happened isn’t his fault, right?”

Mickey stared at his sister before blinking slowly, as if the words didn’t process properly. As if the word ‘ERROR’ was flashing in front of him when his brain was trying to absorb the words. However, they were processed and dissolved into nothing, and Mickey swallowed. “Night, Mandy.” He got out of the car, and made a beeline to his room.

The door to his room closed as softly as possible—which was rare in the household—and feelings he never felt before he got drunk rose, pouring out of his body and making a sea in his room. And he let himself do something he didn’t let himself do ever since he was seven.

He sobbed; a full sob where it made your face shrivel up in despair and your heart bleed out and your body shake from the force and it made your breath hitch.

He finally let himself _be_ a fucking human and sob until his well ran dry, until he realized that his heart was as shriveled as a raisin after pouring his feelings out into the air in his empty bedroom.

And for once, he didn’t give a shit.


	18. 6x09 - Ian

“How’d you do on your GED?” Lip inquired, eyebrows drawn together in concern as both boys leaned against their seats in their car. Ian blew out the smoke through his nose—a trick he learned from his ex that lingered in his head the way carbon monoxide lingered in his veins—to give him a couple seconds to lump words together, form a sentence.

“It was good,” Ian admitted, “I mean, I’m not academically smart enough but I do hope I don’t fucking.. fail or some shit.”

“You’re not gonna fail,” Lip promised.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I do,” Lip corrected, “you’re gonna ace that fucking test, and you’re gonna go to a college and do something worthwhile, and you’re gonna be the second Gallagher that’ll graduate.” He paused, waiting for the redhead’s response, but Ian’s lips were glued shut by doubt. “What job do you want anyways?”

“EMTing,” Ian admitted, looking at his brother. Lip’s eyebrows furrowed a bit more, before looking away. “What?”

“I don’t think I should say,” Lip admitted.

“No, tell me,” Ian pressed.

“Ian—”

“I’m not a fucking baby, nor am I fucking sensitive,” Ian sighed, his irritation leaking out yet again. “Don’t worry about how I feel.”

Lip cleared his throat, and took a time to gather his words together. “I.. don’t think people with mental illnesses are allowed to be EMTs.” The way his voice sounded, was apologetic and shameful; like he made that rule. He was walking on eggshells around Ian, but those eggshells cracked under his weight and shattered, just like Ian’s hopes.

“But I’m balanced,” Ian tried to reason, “I-I’m taking my meds, I haven’t been manic or depressed for months now, I haven’t done anything impulsive, I haven’t tried to kill myself.”

“That doesn’t mean shit to them, unfortunately.” His older brother sighed. “You can still be a bit impulsive while on Lithium, Ian. That’s not your fault. Shit, it isn’t anyone’s fault—”

“But I’m the one who has to deal with the consequences,” Ian muttered. He didn’t know how he felt. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to see Mickey and rant to him. He wanted to call Mandy.

Lip paused and nodded. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it, unfortunately. There are other fields—”

“What, so I’m just gonna have to compromise what I had hoped for and what I can do _again_ because of something that’s been fucking.. passed down to me?” None of this was fair to Ian, at all. This was the second time his hopes were crushed, and how much longer does he have to be disappointed until hope and happiness has been drained out of him completely?

Lip didn’t say anything while the redhead’s world fell apart a tiny bit yet again after building everything back up from scratch. He couldn’t help but feel bad for the redhead, but what was pity going to do other than waste time?

“I-I need to go,” Ian stammered, suddenly feeling like the walls of the car were closing in on him, and crushing him with the weight of his problems. He crushed his cigarette stick and flicked it onto the ground after walking out, making a beeline to the L.

Nothing made sense in his life anymore. Nothing _tangible,_ at least. The only person who made sense in his life was drifting away, out of the redhead’s reach, and he was lost with the destruction of his past, and faint memories of when it was still okay enough for him not to focus on the bad.

But the bad doubled, tripled, quadrupled until all Ian could do was see the bad. Embarking on the train and sitting on a dingy plastic seat, it took everything in him not to cry.

It took everything in him not to recoil in disgust at the looming building of his previous workplace—where Mickey picked him up and took care of him, and stayed by his side, for all that to be for nothing—and walk in. The pounding music didn’t excite him. The ogling old men disgusted him. The men on the podiums and the lounges didn’t arouse him.

As he sat on a stool, the bartender trying to start a conversation with him only to be ignored or snapped at, his eyes scanned the place. He needed to get his rocks off, to channel all his anger and disappointment in himself in someone else, someone else without an identity he knew of. A blank face with a body that was his temporarily.

He didn’t realize until a while later that the men he deemed to be fuckable all had one thing in common—they had the same physical traits as Mickey.  Dark hair, sapphire eyes and an ass that was about to rip through the seams of their jeans. He was trying to find pieces of Mickey in anonymous men, but those pieces didn’t exactly fit, because they _weren’t Mickey._ At this rate, he’d be lucky if his ex wanted to be with him, so he settled for someone else.

Because that’s what he expected to do now—settle for the next best thing, even though it wasn’t the best in his eyes. However that put a sour taste in his mouth—a sour taste that didn’t just go straight down to his belly; no, it spread all over his body, lingering in his skin and clogging up his nostrils.

“Hey,” a man said, sitting next to Ian. His hair was the colour of soot, gelled back, and his eyes were the colour of water. He wasn’t right, but he’ll do.

“You wanna get out of here?” Ian inquired, raising an eyebrow at the man.

“You’re very straightforward, aren’t you?” the man commented. Ian wanted to comment that he just wanted to fuck; he didn’t want to chat over drinks, he didn’t want to get to know the man. He wanted a hole he can penetrate, and he was done. But that would be seen as a turn off.

“I know what I want and I don’t beat around the bush for it,” Ian said instead, surprised at how smoothly it came out. “Do you know what you want?”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t, would I?” the man smirk and got up, walking towards the exit of the building. Ian followed suit, glad that he was getting what he wanted without extra effort.

They had made their way into a dark alleyway. “So how do you like it?” Ian inquired, undoing his belt, before taking his dick in his hand, licking his palm and slowly bringing his cock back to life—or, trying to.

“I like being fucked,” the man smirked, his voice filthy. It didn’t do it for Ian. “How do you like it, baby?”

 _Baby._ Ian tried ignoring it as his hand slid up and down his flaccid cock. “I like, uh..” _he wouldn’t call you ‘baby’. He’s not Mickey._ “Fuck, sorry, I like..” he sighed as his dick didn’t cooperate. “I can’t get it up, what the fuck?”

“Are you serious?” The man responded, exasperated.

“Must’ve drank too much,” the redhead lied before tucking his dick back into his pants. “Sorry, man.”

“You just wasted my time to tell you that you got whiskey dick?” the man asked incredulously. “You don’t even seem that drunk.” Irritation flared up his gut as the redhead furrowed his eyebrows together.

“What, do you want me to fuck you with a flaccid cock?” he sighed, shaking his head. He knew it wasn’t the man’s fault, but he wasn’t going to audibly admit it. So he left the sexually frustrated and aggravated dark-haired man, while internally admonishing himself while walking out of the alley. His fingers—as if they had a mind of their own—fished for his phone in his pocket, and called the man that he had been thinking of nonstop.

His silent plea for his ex to pick up had been made, as the _click_ of the phone being received and his ex’s voice registered with his ear. _“What?”_

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you free now?”

There was silence on the other end. _“Yeah, why?”_

“I just.. need to see you.” He was done pretending like he didn’t crave his ex all the time. “Please.”

_“Meet me back at your place in twenty minutes.”_

****************

Mickey had been at the Gallagher’s residence in twenty minutes, cheeks flushed, and concern written all over his face. It was out of the ordinary for Ian to beg for his company, and both of them knew it. But Ian’s done a lot of things in the past that were out of the ordinary.

“Hey,” Ian said when he saw his ex waiting by the porch when he had come back home. He resisted the strong urge to grab the man and kiss him. Instead, he unlocked the door and let the dark-haired man follow him in. “You want anything?” His shoulders were slouched, eyes bleary, and head slightly bowed. Everything screamed ‘I’m upset’ to the dark-haired man who spent hours studying the redhead.

“I wanna know why you’re upset,” Mickey responded, crossing his arms. Ian looked up at his ex, and contemplated telling him.

“It’s.. stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s got you fucking mopin’ and shit. Ian,” he held the younger man’s gaze for a while; like it was the most delicate thing ever to touch his calloused hands. “Tell me. Is it the GED? Did you not fuckin’ pass?”

“No,” Ian sighed. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be a surprise if I didn’t pass.”

“Then what?”

The redhead sighed again. “You know how I wanted to be an EMT?” he paused, for the confirmation of the head nod the dark-haired man gave. “Lip and I were talkin’ about it, and he said that he doesn’t think that mentally ill people—” he waved his hands half-heartedly, gesturing to himself—“are able to become EMTs.”

“What do you mean they ‘aren’t able to’?” his eyebrows are drawn in confusion. “They’re not fucking allowed or some shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Then lie.”

“What if they find out?”

“They won’t.” There was silence following after that, as the sorrow Ian felt oozed out. He would’ve killed for the dark-haired man to soothe him with sweet words and soft touches. He knew that Mickey wanted to touch him, but didn’t push. Pushing was what got them into this mess.

“I _am_ her,” Ian mumbled feebly.

“Who?” Mickey questioned.

“Monica,” Ian answered, louder this time.

“You ain’t her,” his ex denied, shaking his head as if that was ludicrous. “Just because you got your fuckin’ disorder from her, doesn’t mean you are.” Irritation was filled to the brim, and spilt over the way water spills over a cup. It wasn’t at his ex, but Mickey just happened to be there, beside him.

“I am her! Why can’t you fucking see that?” Ian exclaimed, his voice rising with every word. “I ruin everything that’s good for me, I-I am impulsive, I can’t fucking control myself!”

“That’s the disorder, you fucking idiot,” his ex shot back, glaring at him. “You’re not your fucking disorder, and you’re not your mom.”

The redhead scoffed, crossing his arms. “You don’t know _shit_ about the illness.”

Dark eyebrows shot up, brushing his hairline. “I don’t know shit about the illness? Are you fucking kidding me? Did you forget that I was there, _right by your fucking side,_ when you were unmedicated? Hm? I was there when you were fucking catatonic for _weeks on end_ in my bed, I was there when you were bouncing off the fucking walls, doing porn, running away with Yevgeny, I was there when you were adjusting to the meds! I was fucking there for it all, you fucking asshole! And I tried, so fucking hard to take care of you! Shit, your own fucking family didn’t care as much as I did! I cared and loved you at your worst!” he pushed at the redhead’s chest, against the wall, the _thud_ echoing in the—surprisingly—empty house. “And you know what’s fucking worse? After all the shit that I went through, with you and your illness, I _still_ love you, dipshit.” And he pressed his lips against the redhead’s, whose head was spinning out of control.

The kiss was more tongue than anything else, their tongues wildly gliding against each other as their lips molded into each other. Everything their tongues couldn’t form words for, was translated into the kiss. Ian’s heart thudded against his chest as his ex was pressed against him.

Ian’s stringy fingers threaded through inky black hair, gripping onto it tight, like the older man might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold onto him tighter. “Room,” Mickey mumbled against Ian’s lips, and they pulled apart from each other, hurriedly going up the wooden hill and down the hall. Their lips were back on each others, like magnets. They were ends of two magnets, and they have been away for too long to ignore the pull between them.

Fingers clawed desperately at clothed skin, before the _rip_ of an article of clothing filled Ian’s ears, and cool breeze hit his bare skin. “You ripped my favourite shirt,” Ian commented, before nuzzling his face into his ex’s neck, inhaling deeply. The sweet scent engulfed Ian into a wave, but Ian didn’t mind drowning. He wanted to drown in Mickey.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Mickey retorted before tilting his head back and letting the redhead suck at the tender skin, fingers awkwardly peeling clothes off of the older man. They made their way to the small bed, Mickey on top of Ian. Sapphire eyes locked into emerald, and his ex froze, muscles tense as his lower lip quivered. Ian could almost see Mickey’s brain dragging him away from the redhead, and his heart stuttered.

“Let go,” Ian said, softly. He swallowed hard. “Let go of everything that’s happened for me. Please.” He didn’t avert his eyes—he couldn’t. Mickey leaned in and pressed their lips together, again. But it was softer, less needy. Mickey had escaped the clutches of his wretched mind.

When they were naked, Ian reached for the lube and slicked his fingers up, the tip of his finger gingerly touching the puckered hole. His mouth was still pressed against soft billowy lips, tongues dancing and gliding against each other effortlessly, as he inserted a finger inside the tight hole, opening the dark-haired man bit by bit.

Mickey peeled his lips off of Ian’s, cheeks flushed and breath coming out in short huffs. “I’m good.” He inhaled sharply as the redhead pulled his fingers out. Tattooed fingers pinned Ian’s wrists above his head. The younger man needed to touch Mickey. It was a necessity, to feel the silky skin under his fingertips. But Mickey had other plans, and tightened his grip on the wrists when Ian tried to get his wrists free. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

Every fiber in his body locked up, giving way to the sudden dominance and aggression lingering in the tone. Mickey sheathed Ian's cock completely, hissing slightly and biting his lip, face contorted in pain and pleasure. Ian moaned as Mickey rolled his hips, making sure the redhead could feel every inch. “Fuck, Mickey,” he moaned—a moan that was guttural and deep, flying up his body and out of his mouth before he could stop.

The dark-haired man watched Ian fall apart at the seams under him—the string that was sewn together to keep the seams tight, was being undone, everything being destroyed. But Ian didn’t mind getting destroyed like this; he craved it. He craved it more than he thought he did. He craved the man on top of him more than anything.

“I need to touch you,” Ian said, and tattooed fingers let go of his wrists, sliding down to each side of his head. Big hands roamed around his body, before sliding down to his ass. Sparks exploded in his head as his cock throbbed inside his ex. Everything was amazing.

The redhead angled his hips to hit his ex’s prostate, who let out another hiss and grunt. “Fuck,” he let out. “I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The sentence seeped through Ian’s skin and traveled to his heart, coiling around it, and flaring up the organ. His ribcage felt like it was about to explode into a million pieces as his heart struggled to escape his body.

In a swift motion, Ian flipped them over, snapping his hips at an unforgiving pace, cock hitting the prostate with each thrust. He buried his face in the dark-haired man’s neck as he lick, bit and sucked at the tender skin. “I love you,” Ian mumbled against the skin, but he knew that his ex heard, because his grip on the copper-haired man tightened, chewed fingernails scraping against his skin.

Ian’s hot pleasure painted Mickey’s insides, as Mickey’s cum spilt over both their stomachs. They were sweaty, covered in cum, and tired, but that didn’t stop the magnetic force pulling the both of them into a kiss; a kiss that said _‘I’m never leaving’_ and _‘I love you’_ at the same time.

Maybe Ian didn’t have to settle anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my mickey for helping me out!! plus i will edit tomorrow since it's pretty late here. i apologize if any mistakes stand out.


	19. 6x10 - Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of rape and substance abuse

_Mickey would never admit it to anyone, but he was scared of the thunder and lightning as a child._

_The way the sky would rip in two, pour down buckets and buckets and buckets of water, the low but loud rumble of thunder rolling against the sky, and the crackle of lightning sought out to electrify any unlucky person outside, would terrify the little boy. He would lay in his little cot, quivering from the noises and pray for all of it to go away, that he’d trade the thunderstorm for his dad’s thundering roars and the smashing of bottles. Anything was better than this._

_“Mickey,” his mother called. “Dinner’s ready.”_

_Mickey didn’t respond, his fear gluing his mouth shut, and his eyes were closed, hiding under his thin blanket in his bed. His mother kept calling for him, until he heard the creak of his door open. He reluctantly lifted his head from the sheets to look at her. “I don’t feel well.”_

_“A fever? Again?” she sighed, and Mickey could almost read her thoughts. How were they going to afford medication? Terry wasn’t going to help—he’d let the boy die if it meant he could save money. His mother cared, before she had resorted to drugs which ultimately took her away from this cruel world. “I’ll make you soup. Come on.”_

_“No.”_

_“Mikhailo.”_

_“No.” His mother stood by the doorway before she pieced the truth together, like a jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces were scrambled but she took her time to fit the parts that jutted out into the dips, before they weren’t scrambled anymore—they were a picture. She sat on the bed._

_“I used to be scared of thunderstorms too,” she admitted._

_“I’m not scared of thunderstorms," Mickey denied. Her hand made its way to his arm, and stroked the part over the blanket._

_“My mother used to tell me that whenever thunderstorms happened, it was because God was mad.”_

_“That’s stupid,” Mickey scoffed._

_“It’s believable.”_

_“A lot of stupid things are believable.” He paused, long enough for his mother to think he fell asleep. “God would be mad at us though.”_

_“He would.” She kissed his temple, and in that small kiss, his fear washed away; as if the rain outside had poured onto him and lapped up the fear inside him, until it was gone._

_It was the last time he felt safe as a child._

The _pitter patter_ of rain landing on the window next to the sleeping redhead, and the muffled low rumble of thunder outside, kept Mickey up. Copper hair tickled his chin as a nose brushed against his neck, a lanky redhead curled up next to him. Their legs were tangled with each other, like a jumble of cords. Mickey focused on the rise and fall of Ian’s shoulders, the slow exhales that fanned across Mickey's Adam apple, and how tightly Ian was holding him.

He was sore and well aware of the hickeys left on his neck, but he didn’t give a fuck at the moment. He felt safe, in months, even if his eyes were focused on crooked white lines of lightning hitting the ground.

As a child, he was afraid of the lightning the most, afraid of it hitting him and him dying, or worse—barely surviving. But there was a thunderstorm inside him, and a lightning that struck him until he was a pool of shattered bones, broken heart, and scarred skin.

Maybe Ian would help in building him back up. Maybe he’ll leave Mickey for good, leave the broken man behind to find someone who wasn’t nearly as fucked up as the Mickey was. But as for now, he had his own piece of paradise full of sunshine and warmth, in his arms, fast asleep.

A loud rumble split the city in half, and the redhead stirred from his sleep. Mickey lowered his head to look down at tired emerald orbs. “What time is it?” he croaked, sliding his long fingers over his eyes and rubbing at it.

“It’s like, the ass crack of dawn,” Mickey guessed, “you still have time to go back to sleep.” His lips pressed against the younger man’s forehead, lips lingering on the skin longer than needed.

“Why are you not asleep?” the redhead questioned.

“Not tired.”

There was a silence that stretched over them—a silence that was comfortable, like a second skin that you can slide into. “Mickey?”

“What?”

“What are we?” Ian looked up into sapphire eyes. The dark-haired man pondered the thought. He wanted to be with the redhead, but doubt still clawed at his mind. What if Ian left? What would Mickey do then? What if the redhead got tired of being tied down?

Then again, Ian had waited all these months for Mickey. He moved Mickey’s priorities to the top of his list. He was patient, and he was willing to do whatever the older man wanted. He wasn’t going to leave. “We’re a couple,” Mickey stated, as if it was obvious.

“Wait.. we’re together again?” the redhead questioned, his voice raising a pitch in happiness.

“Fuck yeah, we are.”

The redhead nuzzled his face in Mickey’s neck, skin meeting skin, and he inhaled deeply. His eyelashes brushed the soft skin as he closed his eyes and fell back into his slumber. Sleep poured down on him like water, as the rumbles of thunder and the crackling of light weren’t a factor anymore.

He was finally home—a place where he felt safe. Except that home wasn’t a house with a roof over his head; it was two arms and red hair.

 

****************

Mickey woke up to his phone going off, and an empty bed. He rubbed his eyes angrily, grumbling at whoever was calling him, interrupting his blissful sleep. Picking up the phone, he wet his dry lips. “What?”

 _“Where have you been?”_ his wife questioned on the other line.

“Do I need to tell you everywhere I fucking go?”

_“You were out all night. If you were with Bonaduce—”_

“I was.” The silence between them rang in his ears, a bell that was loud and annoying and made Mickey want to reach into his head, rip it out and smash it to pieces. He nudged his knuckle against the side of his nose. “This is where you fuckin’ speak so I know you haven’t hung up on me.”

_“Why were you there?”_

“He needed me.”

 _“He is big boy, he can take care of himself, no?”_ her tone was acidic, angry. It irritated Mickey even more. _“He doesn’t need you to run to his aid.”_

“Why the fuck do you care?” the dark-haired man growled. “He’s gonna help us take care of Geno—”

_“Have you forgotten what happened last time when we trusted him with our child?”_

“He was sick.”

_“Is still sick. Still taking medication, no?”_

“He’s much better than before, Svetlana,” Mickey sighed. He could feel his brain thumping against his cranium. “He’s not gonna go bonkers and run away with Yevgeny again, and it’s about fucking time you trust him.”

_“You cannot make me trust him. This is not how it works.”_

“Then you can’t make me stay away from my fucking boyfriend,” Mickey growled. “I gotta go. I’ll stop by at the place to take care of the fucking kid.” And he hung up before the Russian could protest. He padded to the bathroom to take a leak after grabbing a random pair of boxers and tank top, closing the door and locking it.

Sparing a glance in the dingy bathroom, his eyes landed on the pink scar going down his face.

_Mickey grabbed his father’s face, wavering between unconsciousness and consciousness. His body was in pain, blood oozing from the slits of skin. He couldn’t let Ian suffer because of his stupid idea._

_Terry looked down at his son, who was fighting to keep his eyes open, and lowered his arm, bringing the butt of the pistol against Mickey’s face, as a sickening crack echoed in the room._

Clutching the edge of the basin while his body shook from the flashback, he focused on how his knuckles turned white at the force. The hard object was digging into his palm, but he didn’t give a fuck at the moment. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself, before he could calm himself down and take a leak.

He didn’t want to see Geno—the mere thought made him want to throw up all his fears into the bowl in front of him. He couldn’t do this. This fear was more than just scared of loud noises—it was a fear that scarred the inside of Mickey, and that scar was infected. But Mickey couldn’t afford proper medication for it, so he hoped it got better by itself.

As he walked out, thankful that he didn’t bump into any other Gallagher siblings, he heard his boyfriend’s faint voice from downstairs. “..he slept over last night. I called him over, I was just.. upset, and I needed someone. I needed him.” That was an understatement. The redhead was broken, defeated, battered. However, his body felt like it was levitating in thin air as he listened to his boyfriend talking about how he needed Mickey. Mickey. A man that no one needed, until now.

“Ian, this isn’t healthy,” Fiona responded, her voice slightly louder than the redhead’s. “You can’t keep going back to him if he’s not ready.”

“He is ready,” his boyfriend countered back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” There was a pause that seemed to stretch on forever. “We made it official like, this morning.”

“You have?”

“Yeah,” Ian answered. “Told you we’d get back together.” There was so much happiness in his voice, that it made Mickey’s heart beat louder, as if it wanted the redhead to know that he was tuning in. He felt like a 13 year old girl eavesdropping on her friends.

“How long is it gonna last?” Fiona questioned.

The fuck does she mean by that? “What do you mean?” Ian questioned; his question was a more polite version of the older man's. Mickey couldn’t keep listening, he was gonna get pissed and it was going to ruin his morning, as if it wasn’t ruined by Svetlana’s nosy ass.

“I mean—” she stopped when her eyes landed on Mickey stepping into the dining room. She was behind the kitchen island, and Ian was seated in the small round table, nursing a cup of tea. The younger man turned his head, emerald eyes softening when he saw his boyfriend. The atmosphere was ice cold when Mickey sat down next to the redhead, Ian and Fiona pretending they weren’t talking about him and Mickey pretending he had _no fucking idea_ what they were talking about.

“Hey,” Mickey greeted his boyfriend, who leaned in and left a chaste kiss lingering on his lips. The warmth of the kiss was coupled with the ice cold feeling of paranoia, mixing and swirling together. It was paradoxical and Mickey hated it.

“We didn’t wake you up, did we?” Ian questioned.

“Nah, man,” Mickey denied, shaking his head. “Svetlana called me. Asked me why I wasn’t home.”

“What’d you say?”

“That I was here,” Mickey answered. “What else was I supposed to say?”

“That you weren’t here?” Ian suggested, raising an eyebrow. “I assumed she didn’t like the fact that you were here.”

“You assumed right,” Mickey confirmed. “Doesn’t matter what she fucking thinks though. She’s not my mom.” His eyes flitted over to the brunette, who seemed busy with flipping pancakes, but he had an inkling that she was tuning in on the couple’s conversation.

“She’s still your kid’s mother,” Ian argued.

“Okay. And?” Mickey probed, wetting his lips.

“I get why she’d be worried.”

“Are you taking her fuckin’ side, Gallagher?”

“No! No. I’m just putting myself into her shoes.”

Mickey brushed the pad of his thumb against his nose. “Okay, well, put yourself in mine now, and take a fuckin’ hike.”

“Can I put myself in you after that?” Ian flirted. The corners of Mickey’s mouth tugged at his mouth, pulling them up into a smile that he licked off, before biting his lip.

“You ain’t gettin’ any if you keep wearing my wife’s fuck-me pumps.” He got up to brew coffee for himself.

“On second thought, your shoes are comfier.”

“Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

 

****************

Growing up, Mickey was fascinated by the movies that involved time travel. Not because of the gadgets or that the characters in the movie were able to meet people who were long dead, but because they can go back in time and fix errors. His life was full of errors—one stacked on top of the other. If he stumbled up on an ugly machine that promised to take him back, he’d erase them from his life.

He still wanted a time machine to fix one huge error in his life; the error that brought Yevgeny into this world. The ‘bundle of joy’ was just a bundle of memories that haunted him like ghosts, reminding him that he wasn’t conceived with both parties consenting.

He wanted to puke whenever he thought of taking care of the boy.

He never thought he’d have a child—mostly because he didn’t picture himself with a woman in the future. It was always a man, before he admonished himself for thinking forbidden thoughts. However it stayed inside him instead of leaving his body, and surfaced back up when he started falling for the redhead.

“Ay,” Mickey called when he walked in his childhood home. “Svetlana home?”

“She’s at the bar,” Iggy answered, eyes trained on the television. “Workin’ with V and Kev and shit. Said somethin’ about her previous job being shitty and she needed another one.”

“I didn’t ask for her fucking life story,” Mickey grumbled. “Where’s the kid?”

“In Mandy’s old room. Asleep.” Mickey nodded in response even though Iggy didn't see him. He walked to the room, warm blue walls covering him, with the baby asleep, pillows surrounding him so he doesn’t fall off the bed. His eyes were trained on the kid, as disgust curled around him. He remembered how substance abuse would be the only way he’d be able to stand the kid, stand his life.

His tongue darted out and wet his lips, the craving of coke tickling his brain, before it became an itch that he couldn’t scratch.

_Mickey glanced over at the redhead, who wasn’t able to return his gaze. Mickey couldn’t blame him, he wouldn’t want to look at himself either. The ‘slap’ of skin against skin was too much. The buoyancy of breasts bouncing in front of him was too much. The fact that his father was watching him get fucked by a hooker was too much._

_Everything was too much, and it was like a bucket of ice cold water poured over him, waking him up from his slumber. In one swift motion, he turned the hooker over so he was on top and snapped his hips at an unforgiving pace._

His index finger and thumb were pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing the bone as hard as possible, as bile crawled up his throat, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. It wasn’t the burn that he got when he touched Ian; where it’d warm his insides up just a bit, like the way the sun would touch your skin on a warm day.

It was like a forest fire had erupted inside him, destroying everything except for the flashbacks, until they were all burnt to a crisp and Mickey was surrounded by ashes.

As if things couldn’t get worse, his phone went off, which woke Geno up, who wailed in response. “Fuck,” Mickey sighed, and gently picked the baby up, rocking him while trying not to cry himself, before picking up his phone. Svetlana was calling him again. “What?”

_“You with Yevgeny?”_

“Are you fucking deaf? Can you not hear your kid crying right next to your phone?” He wanted to scream at the kid to shut the fuck up, the way Terry screamed at him when he cried as a child.

 _“Shut him up,”_ his wife suggested.

“Wow, how did I not think of that?” Mickey quipped. “When are you getting back here?”

_“Are you going to be home?”_

“Answer my question.”

_“Answer mine first.”_

Mickey was silent as he bounced on the balls of his feet, feeling silly as he did so. “I don’t know.”

_“What does that mean?”_

“It means I don’t fuckin’ know.” He sighed. “Answer my question now.”

 _“I’ll be home late,”_ she answered. _“Can you take care of him?”_

Mickey wanted to say no. He wanted to think of himself for once, how he feels about this dynamic between the three of them. He didn’t love the kid, that was apparent. It doesn’t mean he didn’t try to. However, he didn’t know how to put himself first. He didn’t see himself as important. So he agreed. “I’ll take care of him. With Ian.”

_“I don’t—”_

“Listen, this kid is mine as much as it’s yours,” Mickey interrupted, his head hurting and his patience thinning by the second. “That means _I_ get a fucking say on who he’s with as much as you do. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t trust Ian, he’s fucking balanced. This is coming from someone who bothered talking to him recently. So you need to fucking suck it the fuck up, or I will go over to The Alibi and leave Yevgeny with you. Take your fucking pick.”

There was silence on the end. And then his wife muttered a _“fine, but I will skin you alive if anything happens to_  my  _son_ _”_ before hanging up.

Mickey shouldn’t have felt triumphant, but he did when he realized he got his way with the stubborn bitch.


	20. 6x10 - Ian

_“You’re a coward.” The silence stretched on the duo as they stared each other down, neither of them wanting to look away. Ian’s eyes were clouded with anger and hurt while Mickey’s were amorous and confused._

_“Fuck you,” Mickey finally said, “you don’t understand this at all—”_

_“Oh I do understand. I understand better than anyone that you’re afraid of your father, you’re afraid of your wife,” the redhead interrupted, counting off the people with his fingers. “You’re afraid to be who you are.” Ian grabbed his coat and shrugged it on himself, anger colliding with hurt, sadness, and hopelessness. He didn’t understand why Mickey was choosing to live a lie than to be free._

_“Well, good. Leave,” Mickey sneered, “the hell do I care, bitch?” his mouth was the bow, the words spilling out of his mouth were arrows, and Ian’s heart was the target. The words pierced his heart every time. Fucking bullseye. As he passed Terry, it took everything in him not to reach over and pummel the smug face into oblivion, to make him hurt the way he hurt Mickey and Ian. To make him miserable and broken forever._

_He opened the door when a palm slapped on the boombox repeatedly. “Hey! Excuse me!” the dark-haired man exclaimed. “Can I get everybody’s attention please?” Ian turned around to look at Mickey, the bar slowly quieting down to silence. “I just want everybody here to know, I’m fuckin’ gay.”_

_The redhead’s eyes went wide as saucers, shock striking his body like a lightning bolt. He did it. He came out, to everyone—to Terry, to his wife, to every fucking family member at the bar. And he did it for Ian._

_“Big ol ‘mo,” Mickey continued, filling the silence with anything he could. Sapphire eyes flitted around the room, analyzing everyone’s expressions. Ian closed the door, his body still suffering from the aftermath of the lightning bolt. “Just thought everybody should know that.” Sapphire eyes found Ian’s in the crowd, as he raised his eyebrows defiantly. “You happy now?”_

Ian could still remember it like it was the night prior. The hurt inside him that only amplified in his stomach with the liquor, the anger that was morphed into something that was insatiable, and the shock that blocked any other emotions out. He could feel the phantom pain spreading across his ribs and how it hurt to laugh or breathe deeply because of it. He still remember how satisfying it was to butt his head against Terry’s, how adrenaline forced him to stay and fight for Mickey, and how his body had gone on autopilot.

It would be as vivid as he grew older. Memories would fade away like old photographs while this one in particular would still have its colour, still stay as bright and vibrant for as long as possible. It would be his favourite photograph, of his boyfriend being terrified of losing him more than he was of anything else—even Terry.

He sucked on the cigarette in between his lips, exhaling the smoke out of his mouth as he made his way to the Kash n Grab. Fiona has made him run errands—like go grocery shopping, pick Liam up from school—because he has yet to find a job. He wondered if he could lie about his mental illness if he did decide to become an EMT; get away with it, like it was his own dirty little secret.

But what if his symptoms showed? What if he was manic for weeks, or what if he skipped work for weeks because he was depressed and the energy was seeped out of him? How was he going to come up with an excuse for that?

The Kash n Grab was different than he remembered—it was dirtier, and the music spilling from the speakers weren’t Middle Eastern music. Maybe Linda sold it to someone else and moved away. Either way, he didn’t like being in the store, didn’t like remembering things he kept bottled up.

_“Ian Gallagher! You messed with the wrong girl!” Like a prey being caught by its predator, Ian scrambled to the back of the store and locked the door behind him, his heart in his mouth. However, Mickey was fucking fast and was banging on the door right after Ian managed to lock it. “Mandy told us what you fucking did, you piece of shit! Get out here!”_

_Kash had covered for the redhead, his lie acting like a cloak, shielding Ian away from the Milkoviches. Why didn’t he just fucking suck it up and have sex with Mandy?_

_Mickey ordered his brothers to run to the alley, while Ian’s ears strained to see if the coast was clear. The coast, however, still had a blot named Mickey Milkovich standing outside the door. “Tell fuckhead this is not over!”_

As Ian grabbed the bags after receiving his change, he hauled ass out of there. He didn’t like that place—not one bit. The redhead’s phone started ringing and he fished for it before answering it. “Hey,” he answered.

 _“You free?”_ the husky voice questioned. _“Svetlana asked me to babysit Geno. I’m all alone at home and it’s fucking boring here. Come help me take care of the little shit.”_

Ian’s eyebrows raised at the invitation. “Uh.. are you sure? Is Svetlana okay with me being around him?”

 _“It doesn’t fucking matter what she wants,”_ his boyfriend responded.

“She’s Geno’s mom, baby.”

 _“And I’m his dad, and I think you’ll be okay with him around. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep a close eye on you both. I just.. don’t want to be fuckin’ alone with him.”_ Ian chewed on his lip, thinking it through.

“I don’t want her to be upset.”

_“She’s always upset.”_

“I don’t want her to be more upset.”

 _“Holy f-just come over,”_ his boyfriend sighed exasperatedly. _“He’ll be fine.”_

Ian made up his mind. “Alright. I gotta go home. Fiona made me get a couple groceries. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

_“Where are you?”_

“In front of the Kash n Grab.”

 _“Can you get me Barbeque Pringles?”_ his boyfriend inquired. _“Haven’t had those for fuckin’ years.”_ Ian gnawed on his lip. The answer was obvious; yes. Yes, he can do that. Because, as stubborn as he was, it melts away into a puddle when it came to his boyfriend. He’d bend over backwards, sideways, in any fucking direction to make Mickey happy.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered. “I’ll see you then. Bye.”

 _“Hey, Ian?”_ his boyfriend said before he could hang up.

“What’s up?”

There was silence on the other end, and the low rumble of his boyfriend exhaling deeply. _“I love you.”_

The corners of his mouth were dragged upwards, splitting his face into two as a goofy smile was painted on his lips. His heart expanded and contracted at the same time, as electricity buzzed inside him, lighting everything up inside him. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he hung up, turning around to walk back into the dreaded store.

 

****************

“I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t have a fuckin’ reason to not trust you,” Mickey argued as he munched on the chips in front of him. “But you’re not fucking manic anymore.” The two were seated in his room, backs against the headboard and shoulders brushing each other.

“I know that and you know that,” the redhead responded, “but even if you loved the kid—”

“Which I don’t.”

“ _If_ you loved Geno,” Ian repeated, “you wouldn’t trust me with him.”

“The fuck I wouldn’t.” he licked the residue of the chips off his fingers, and Ian focused on how the billowy lips wrapped around them. The fingers were pulled off with a soft _smack._ Ian’s intestines twisted and turned and fidgeted inside him as his gut flared with the feeling of lust. “Yevgeny asleep?”

“Think so,” Ian muttered.

“Thank fuck,” the dark-haired man responded, and waved the redhead closer to him with a “c’mere.” Ian leaned in and closed the distance between their mouths, tongue immediately slipping in his boyfriend’s mouth. His brain floated in his cranium as Ian fell deeper into the pit that was Mickey Milkovich. Their tongues glided together, like they had known how to react to each other; like it was instinct. Mickey tasted like Barbeque Pringles, beer and cigarettes. Even though they were a bad mix, they swirled well in Ian’s mouth.

They weren’t two halves of a whole. Ian was always complete without Mickey. They were two empty people whose souls were away from each other for way too long. Ian had felt like he was at home when he was with his boyfriend, and he wanted to stay cooped up in his home. He was a land that Ian knew every crevice and bump, had it memorized, but he still explored every inch like it was his first time in it. Because no matter how many times he’s explored the creamy skin underneath all the clothes, and the heart hidden behind the sturdy walls, he will always be shaken to his core about how beautiful this man was.

“Need you,” Ian sighed as a soft mouth attached itself to his neck, Mickey alternating between swirling his tongue against the soft skin and lightly nipping at it. The dark-haired man’s legs trapped Ian’s hips between them, his ass against the redhead's crotch.

“What’s stopping you from taking me?” Mickey responded, as clumsy fingers peeled off articles of clothes. Ian grabbed the bottle of lube before slicking his fingers up and inserting one into the tight ring of muscles. He pushed one finger in to the last knuckle, which elicited a hiss from the shorter man, followed by a low grunt. Doing quick work of opening him up while kissing every inch of skin close enough to his mouth, he pulled his fingers out when his boyfriend patted the wrist to indicate that he was ready.

Applying an ample amount of lube on his cock, the dark-haired man slowly inched the cock inside him, biting his lip in pleasure. His eyebrows were contorted in pain and pleasure, and mouth formed an ‘O’ as he bottomed out. Ian’s nails dug into the skin, breathy moans leaking out of his mouth and painting pictures on the shorter man’s milky skin.

“You’re mine,” Ian let out as his boyfriend used his strong thighs to ride the pole, “never gonna let you go again.” He angled his hips to hit Mickey’s prostate, pulling on the inky black hair so Mickey had to tilt his head back, and peppered kisses on the lining of his throat. “Don’t want to live without you again.”

“Fuck,” Mickey let out, chewed fingers raking the freckled skin. “Then don’t.” A white ribbon of cum landed on both Mickey and Ian, as his ass cheeks clenched around the redhead’s cock.

“I’m-fuck-almost—” he shot his load inside his lover, his vision going white. Calloused fingers gently touched the redhead’s chin, making the redhead look into sapphire eyes before Mickey slotted their mouths together. The kiss was soft and short-lived, as his boyfriend’s warm breath fanned across his mouth after they pulled back. Ian could feel himself drowning in the pits of the ocean eyes, drowning in the dark-haired man on his lap. 

“Don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just curious: would you guys want me to make a sequel of this? write about how i'd like their relationship to be?
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	21. 6x11 - Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of overdosing, suicide.
> 
> thanks to my mickey for always giving me amazing prompts to work with

Eating pizza bagels and munching on frozen waffles while they smoked and drank—well, Mickey drank—gave an illusion that the past years never happened and that they were still together; happy, not as fucked up as they were currently, and just two boys that were falling head over heels in love with each other. The beautiful illusion kept them safe, shielded away from the ugly reality of it all.

Yevgeny was the blade that dove into the illusion and broke its guard, which left slits of their little world where their reality can peek in.

See, Mickey can handle reality. He’s been handling reality for a while now, and made the throbbing of his scars lessen with the help of drugs, but there was one person that healed his wounds and quieted his mind, even if it was for just a second.

The dark-haired man passed a bottle of root beer to his boyfriend, the latter catching it easily. “The only non-alcoholic thing in this house.” He sat next to the younger man.

“What about water?”

“Do you drink water because you like the taste of it, or because it’s a necessity?”

“Wow, you’re using all the big boy words, huh?” his boyfriend teased.

“At least I can pronounce the soft c’s and the s,” Mickey shot back, licking the grin off of his lips. The redhead didn’t respond—he just raised his eyebrows in interest, before going closer to the dark-haired man.

“You remembered that little fact about me?”

_The sun was a colour of bright red, filling half of the sky with a blood-red tint, as it dipped down the covers of where the sky met the ground and fell asleep, only to return tomorrow. Mickey was much more invested in the redness of Ian’s hair. How it stuck out in some places and laid flat on his head in others. How wisps of copper hair looked orange in the sunlight but brown in other lights, and how Mickey couldn’t stop touching the coppery hair._

_The post-sex high was mingling with the happiness he got with being around Ian; the one where he felt like the chains that bound him to his fears were finally broken. His wrists were red from him straining against the cuffs, and his muscles ached, but he was free, free to live however he wanted to._

_Ian made him free._

_“I used to have a slight lisp,” Ian said out of the blue once. If it was anyone else, Mickey would’ve shut them up with a ‘the fuck do I care?’ and stayed in silence, but he let the redhead speak, because his voice was music to Mickey’s ears, music that stayed inside him, kept away—a little gift that Mickey had when things were unbearable._

_“So you couldn’t pronounce your s and soft c and shit?”_

_“Yeah,” Ian nodded. “We couldn’t afford a speech therapist. There was none at the school.”_

_“Of course not, they didn’t think it’d matter,” Mickey interrupted._

_“Yeah, so Lip went online, on this shitty computer that we had with the shitty wifi. And he looked it up.”_

_“How old was he?”_

_“Ten. I was eight,” Ian responded. “Figured out how to do it, and taught me.”_

_“So he can be a good person when he wants to, huh?”_

_Ian laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.”_

Mickey felt the blood rush up to his neck as he looked away and sniffed uncomfortably. It wasn’t anything significant to the redhead, but Mickey memorized it, kept it in a part of his mind, in a file that was closed. But sometimes he’d open the file and go through them. He remembers other things that he’d noticed—like how the redhead hates it when his food touch, or that he dislikes the freckles littered all over his body (even though Mickey saw them as stars on a night sky), or how his smile slightly drooped on one side, or how his jaw was slightly asymmetrical. He remembered how Ian hated the military buzzcut because he thought it made his head look big and gay shit like that. He memorized every word that dropped off of those lips like droplets of water, collected all the droplets and kept them in a bucket somewhere deep inside him.

“I mean, you know a couple stupid things about me,” he argued, but it was a weak one with its legs breaking due to its weight.

“Yeah, like how you had a weird ass crush on Steven Seagal,” the redhead teased.

“Fuck off, Steven Seagal was hot as shit to me back then,” the dark-haired man chuckled.

“Van Damme’s better.”

“Say that again and I’ll rip your tongue out of your head,” the older man threatened, but there was no heat behind it. It wasn’t harsh and icy cold like it used to be with the redhead. It was warm, soft, as if the temperature was too warm to freeze up his demeanor.

“Oh yeah? Come here, tough guy,” Ian challenged and the duo started to wrestle, arms flailing around while both of them tried to have control over the other. Reality slipped away, walked out the door and promised that it’ll come back later, while the faux illusion decided to keep the two company.

 

************

 

_His knuckles were bruised, bone aching from the impact of breaking another man’s bones. It had become a routine. Words failed Mickey—they always did. They would get stuck in his throat and refuse to come out. They’d hide inside Mickey. So Mickey used his fists to convey his emotions; which was usually anger._

_He was walking down a very familiar pathway that his father had paved, full of thorns in bushes, and roses ripped from their stems, thrown onto the ground and stomped on. Nothing beautiful grew in this pathway. It was concrete and the concrete was stamped with muddy footprints of his father’s, Mickey was slowly starting to add his own to the mix, beside his brothers. It wasn’t something the boy wished he did, but it was too late now. Everything was set in stone, carved with an ugly handwriting. Yes, you can throw the stone away, get a new one, but that doesn’t mean that the carving will magically disappear. It’ll still be a part of the stone, just like how your past will always be a part of you._

_Walking up the rickety steps of the porch, swinging the door open, his house was eerily quiet. His ears strained to hear the small clatter of pots and pans that he’d usually hear. Nothing. That was oddly strange, and it planted a seed of uneasiness inside his stomach._

_“Mom?” Mickey called out, voice wavering ever so slightly—the weakness hidden in the sturdiness surrounding it. “Mom, I’m hungry.” Where the fuck was she?_

_Mickey went room to room, until he had found his mom. She had been laying on the bed, eyes shut, her chest not rising and falling like it usually did when she was sleeping, and an empty container of pills beside her._

He was layered in a film of sweat that made his tank top cling onto his skin like it was paper and the sweat was glue. The arm that was draped around his waist felt like it was steel crushing his body as he gasped for air. His bones were crumbling and the sweat layered on his skin felt like acid—burning holes into it and poisoning his insides.

“Mick?” a voice croaked as the heavy arm was taken away from him. The feeling of being crushed didn’t dissipate, it got worse. His breathing evened out as the energy to sit up came back to him, and he wiped away the beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead. “Hey.” A hand caressed the back of his neck, fingers squeezing slightly to knead the muscles. “You’re all sweaty, man. Let’s go take a shower, calm your nerves.”

Why was he dreaming about her? He didn’t understand, he seemed to be okay with her. And now she was coming back, visiting him in his dreams, haunting him wherever he went.

A warm hand helped him up and guided him to the bathroom, Mickey’s surroundings confusing him momentarily before his eyes landed on the redhead turning on the shower. “I’m fine,” he mumbled. His voice sounded weird. It sounded like it hadn’t come from his body, like someone else was there with him. His mind and body were two separate beings; his body refusing the help that the redhead was offering him and his mind trying to pick up pieces that made sense. But none of them made sense, so he was stuck with fragments that didn’t fit together perfectly.

His stubborn boyfriend was having none of that, so it wasn’t a surprise when the redhead argued. “You’re fucking sweaty and you look like you just saw a ghost. Taking a shower with you is the least I can do.” Mickey didn’t move—his feet were tied with invisible laces that anchored him to the spot he was standing in. “Come here. Let me take care of you for once,” Ian added. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a plea. A plea that translated to ‘please just trust me enough to see the side you don’t show anyone’. And damn it, maybe Mickey was tired of hiding that side, sweeping it under the rug and hiding it in his shadow so people won’t see.

So he took his clothes off and stepped in the dirty bathtub with the redhead as the spray of water hit both of them. It was cooling—like summer rain, and the warmth of his boyfriend was the sun peeking out from behind the clouds.

Mickey clung to his sun like it was a lifesaver, because maybe Ian was a lifesaver. He was that ring that was tossed out into the sea to help Mickey get back on the ship when he was drowning. And Mickey had been swimming to be afloat, but his muscles were sore and he was tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

So he let the redhead take care of him for once. He let Ian demolish the guards that was hoisted up over his head, and let him in deeper beneath the walls, beneath all the rubble of destruction Mickey hadn’t bothered to pick up after, because it’s going to topple over again, so why bother cleaning it up in the first place?

Maybe he was tired of being under the rubble and destruction and needed to be let out. Maybe he needed to be taken care of.


	22. 6x11 - Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of suicide, self harm and rape

You know when you eat something new, and you don’t like it at first? But you decide to give it another try, and the more you eat that specific food, the more it tastes better to you, until at one point you crave it and your body itches for it like the way a smoker’s lungs ache for a cigarette. At first you’re disgusted by it but now it’s weaved into your brain and twisted it so you can’t live without it, and now you can’t imagine _why_ you didn’t like it in the first place.

That was what happened with Ian and his boyfriend’s scent. The mix of cigarette, beer and cheap cologne would choke him; wrap its long tendrils around his neck and throttle him. But the more he inhaled it, the more the tendrils would loosen up until it was gone. Now Ian’s body craved for the smell, for the mixture of cigarettes, cheap cologne and beer.

He didn’t know when it happened. He just knew that when they first slept in a bed together and when Mickey was fast asleep, Ian wrapped his arm around the man’s waist, and breathed in the intoxicating scent, and felt at home. Like he lost all these years and he didn’t know he wasn’t home until he had a lungful of that scent. He didn’t tell Mickey, inhaling quietly whenever he would nuzzle his face into the older man’s neck.

_“That means get the fuck up, it’s my turn,” the dark-haired man growled at the man Ian was straddling, getting the duo on the couch to get up. He wasn’t expecting to see those sapphire eyes ever again, and the sweet scent of cologne had hit his nostrils. Sirens went off in his head. Sirens that screamed ‘this isn’t normal, you aren’t home’ over and over again._

_“I’ll look for you later, Curtis,” the fat, bald man said in what he thought was seductive._

_Mickey smelt like another man; another blurred face that Ian was paid to fuck and grind on and it was somewhat easy for Ian to pretend that he wasn’t the man that the redhead was in love with, the man that Ian tried to wipe away from his mind with the eraser that were drugs._

_But he talked, and that voice warmed his broken heart, glued the pieces back together, as if it hadn’t been shattered in the first place. It cleared the fog in his head._

_“Curtis? That your fucking stage name?” ‘This isn't normal, you aren't home. This isn't normal, you aren't home. This isn't normal, you aren't home.’_

_“25 bucks gets you a dance.”_

Ian was back home now, back where his chest was pressed against Mickey's body and his nostrils were filled with his scent, and this time he won’t walk out the door ever again. Inhaling again as he nosed his boyfriend’s neck, he realized how content he was, how at peace his body was. His scrambled brain wasn’t so scrambled now, and he was holding the love of his life in his arms, stringy fingers slotted with tattooed ones, gripping on as tight as he could.

At first it was both of them spooning in bed, in silence, until consciousness slipped away from Ian, giving way to comfortable darkness. When he had woken up, sunlight was peeking through slits of curtains and burning his eyelids. Squeezing his eyelids and groaning softly, his hold tightening, consciousness slowly seeped into him.

Ian connected his lips onto a shoulder blade, feeling the skin stretched over muscle and bones. “Mornin’.”

“Hey.” The voice wasn’t croaky, nor was it filled with enthusiasm. It sounded monotonous, which wasn’t like Mickey. The past day wasn’t anything like Mickey. He had shut down, and broken into jagged pieces in Ian’s hands. The pieces didn’t cut Ian but it still hurt seeing his lover so broken and vulnerable that he wanted to go to the fucking store and buy glue to fit the pieces back together. But even then, Mickey would be weaker and with obvious cracks in him. That wasn’t good either.

“How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t.”

There was a shift in bed as the redhead moved, his chest pressed even closer to the shorter man’s back. “So you stayed up all night just staring at the wall?”

“Geno woke up a couple times,” his boyfriend answered, “took the fucker long enough to calm down and fall asleep.”

“And you didn’t fall back asleep after that?”

“What was the point?”

“To get some sleep.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ tired.”

Ian sighed. He was stubborn but his boyfriend’s stubbornness was a thick foam around him, unrelenting, unwavering—it lathered around his mind. When he had come up with a decision, it was rare that he changed his mind. “Want me to make you breakfast?”

Ian was sure that the dark-haired man smiled. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Stay here,” Ian ordered and got out of the hard bed, putting on a random pair of boxers. He padded to the kitchen, only to find hard emerald eyes flitting to him. The tension crackled and snapped between them, like an electric wire. The redhead cleared his throat, swallowing down words like ‘I’m sorry about what I've done when I was sick’ and ‘I’m better now’ raking down his throat like shards of glasses. “Hey,” he stated instead and hated how wobbly his voice sounded. His voice was a building which had a weak frame, and one blow from a strong natural disaster would have it toppling over.

“You stayed the night?” she questioned, giving the redhead a once over.

“Yeah,” Ian shrugged. “Obviously.” Their relationship had always been an awkward one, but it was even more awkward at the moment, with small talk exposing words that shouldn’t be said, _wouldn’t_ be said.

_Svetlana walked into the dingy, dull room, a cigarette between her lips. Ian watched the tip glow orange as she took a drag. “Good evening,” she said in a thick Russian voice. “Would you like water?”_

_Ian swallowed hard. “No thank you.”_

_“You asked me for special, you been here before?” she inquired._

_“No.”_

_“Referral?”_

_“Yeah,” the redhead lied. It wasn’t referral—he wanted to see what was so good about her; wanted to see why Mickey was marrying her. She had chestnut brown hair up to her shoulders and covering her forehead, hard emerald eyes. Mandy was right; she was pretty if your preference was a dead-eyed Russian hooker._

_“Your face looks familiar,” she commented. Ian’s heart pounded in his chest, contracting and expanding, like it wanted to drill a hole through his chest, leap out, and tell the hooker in front of him the truth; that he was gay and that he was her fiancé’s fuckbuddy—the same boy who watched her fuck the man he loved. His jaw was frozen, the frost that was thinly covering the body part was fear and hurt. So he shrugged. “What would you like tonight?”_

_“What do you got?”_

_“No,” she said, “you say what you like then you pay.”_

_The frost around his jaw melted away, as he was under the spotlight of two harsh green eyes. He wanted to leave, go back into the dark, but the spotlights would follow him, blind him with its strong light. So he manned up and answered. “Blowjob.”_

The day clung around his head and held on tight—hugged it so even if Ian wanted it to go away, it wouldn’t leave. So he shoved it to the back of his brain, and ignored the itch at the back of his head.

“What the fuck’s taking you so—” the husky voice halted to a stop, like slamming onto car brakes suddenly, causing everyone to jolt. “Where the fuck were you?” his boyfriend questioned instead, directing his attention to the Russian who was oddly quiet.

“Work,” she responded.

“All fuckin’ night, huh? You left me with this kid all night, while you ‘worked’.”

“He’s yours as well, yes?” she questioned, and the duo had a silent conversation, Mickey glowering at the brunette and Svetlana smiling slightly at the dark-haired man.

“Yeah, well, _our_ kid—” he spit the word ‘our’ out like it was bitter; a word that his tongue wasn’t okay with tasting and his mouth wasn’t okay with having—“is okay now. You got worried for nothin’ didn’t you?”

“I had reason to worry,” she argued, her eyes flitting to the redhead, who pretended not to hear. But every word were balls that were thrown in Ian’s direction, and he caught every one of those balls, and placed them right beside him before getting ready to catch another one.

“You worried for nothing,” his boyfriend repeated, his voice lower and more annoyed. “He’s okay, in his crib—”

“Because your boyfriend was being watched.”

“Because he’s stable.” Ian didn’t want to catch any more balls. His arms were tired.

“I’m sorry, do you want me to leave?” he questioned, which earned him a ‘no’ from Mickey and a ‘yes’ from Svetlana before the duo glared at each other. Either way, the redhead was going to leave, so he made his way over to the room that he slept in the night prior.

“Can you fucking let go of shit that’s happened in the past?” the redhead could hear his boyfriend’s aggravated tone through the paper thin walls that did nothing but let the voice slip through them, float around in the dingy room Ian was in, and litter itself around him.

“I am being cautious.”

“You’re being biased.” He heard a sigh. “You know what? This is fucking pointless. Nothing’s gonna get through your thick head that he’s fuckin’ changed and is better now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I gave him a chance, and so can you, but you’re too fucking stubborn to do that,” he answered. “I’m fucking done. Done with putting up with you trying to control who I date, done with you trying to get me to love Yevgeny when I don’t even think he’s mine. I’m fucking done with putting up with you and this shitty family. Have fun with raisin’ Yevgeny yourself. I’m leaving.”

The redhead busied himself with putting clothes on as his boyfriend stormed in and slammed the door shut. “You didn’t have to—”

“What, and let her insult you?” Mickey scoffed, crossing his arms.

“No, I meant.. leaving this place.”

“It was bound to happen one day or another, right?” he sniffed, and scratched the bridge of his nose. “Never really liked this shithole anyways.” He shoved clothes in a Duffel bag, and zipped the bag up. “Lip and Fiona are gonna hate me moving in again.”

“Fuck what they think.”

 

****************

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” the redhead started tentatively. The two were in his tiny room, sitting next to each other with their window open and sharing Ian’s last cigarette. It was in complete silence, the silence acting like a fluffy blanket that was on top of them, caressing their skin with its soft touches and letting them get lost in it. Ian had to take the blanket off with the words that were hanging around it.

“What have you been meaning to ask?”

“About.. yesterday, with your nightmare,” Ian said slowly. His emerald eyes were trained on his boyfriend’s, taking in anything that had seemed out of the ordinary; tensing of muscles, one of his ticks taking over him, or maybe him shutting down and pushing the redhead out.

“What about it?” the husky voice had seemed like it was struggling to cover any sign of emotions with a thin mist of nonchalance, but the nonchalance was way too thin—it was barely covering anything.

“What was it about?”

“It wasn’t about anything.”

Ian’s first instinct was to push, until he got the answer out. He wanted to reach inside the barrier that was around his boyfriend and pull out anything he was hiding, analyze it, and put it back in as if it never left its hiding spot. But whenever he tried to reach in, the walls broke his fingers in half. So he waited until the walls came tumbling down by itself.

“It was about my mom,” the dark-haired man answered softly. The walls came tumbling down and revealing something they barely talked about before. “The day she died.”

“Mandy said she overdosed,” Ian remembered aloud, thinking of how she didn’t give a shit. Ian didn’t think any of them were close with their parents which, eventually why they weren’t affected by their mom’s death, but the way Mickey was staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette as the ash crept up the stick, he looked broken.

“She did,” his boyfriend confirmed, “I found her body.”

_Mickey didn’t know what to do. Sirens went off in his head, each one louder than the last as he walked closer to the body. There was a tiny sliver of hope that maybe she was alive, maybe she’d wake up in a couple hours and pass out again. But it was silenced by the sirens._

_A trembling hand flew up to his mother’s neck and checked for a pulse. Nothing. His heart pounded hard, in fear of someone catching him with her. The empty container beside her bed taunted him, as if it had a mouth and was screaming ‘I killed your mother’._

_The creak of the door opened and his heart leapt out of his mouth and onto the floor as it throbbed sporadically. “Ma!” a voice said as he heard the footsteps get closer. “Ma, make me—” Jaime’s sapphire eyes landed on the dead body and his little brother beside it. “The fuck happened here?”_

_“What the fuck does it look like?” Mickey exclaimed, his voice raising as each word flew out of his mouth._

_Jaime’s eyes flitted to the container, then back to their mom, then to Mickey. He did this a couple times, until Mickey’s panic gave way to anger._

_“Why the fuck are you just standing there?” the younger brother exclaimed. “We gotta do something! Call an ambulance, take her to a hospital.. something!”_

_“Yeah? And who’s gonna pay the medical bills to save her?” Jaime snarled. “We’re gonna wait for fucking hours, only for them to say that she’s dead, and on top of that we’re going to have to pay for that shit! She’s fucking dead. We’re gonna have to take her to the mortuary.”_

Ian sat there, in silence. What would he say? ‘I’m sorry’? ‘You shouldn’t have had to go through that’? How the fuck does that help? He knew if someone said anything along those lines to him after he told them about how Monica slit her wrists at Thanksgiving dinner, he’d be frustrated.

Luckily, Mickey broke the silence in half. “I mean, it was fuckin’ inevitable that she was gonna kill herself. Just.. not that soon.” His head was bowed, staring at his lap. Pity coiled around Ian. He knew what it was like to walk in on your mother so troubled that she tried to commit suicide. His lips pressed against the shorter man’s head, the inky black hair tickling his face, as he draped an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulder. Mickey gave in; like he was play doh, willing to bend and twist in every shape or form Ian wanted to.

“It’s not your fault, though,” Ian finally said. “You know that. Right?” The silence that stretched on after that confirmed that his boyfriend didn’t know. “A couple years ago, Monica slit her wrists on Thanksgiving dinner. I knew something was wrong with her before she even cut herself, didn’t tell anyone because I thought I was being way too paranoid. But I knew I should’ve when we walked into the kitchen and saw her wrists slit, and blood pouring out of it. I thought, maybe if I said something, everyone else would’ve kept an eye on her.”

“That’s not your fault, Red,” his boyfriend said.

“Neither is your mom dying.” His thumb rubbed against the clothed back. “So stop blaming yourself.”

“It’s not like I can fuckin’ stop whenever I want to.”

“Then try,” the redhead suggested. “Try.”

The silence was back as Mickey mulled over the suggestion. After he took another drag of the almost-done cigarette, he blew it out slowly, the cloud of smoke billowing out in front of them and dissipating. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the flashback between svetlana and ian is actually a deleted scene from season 3. i wish i was lying.
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	23. 6x12 - Mickey

**Two months later**

 

The last time Mickey was at the clinic, he wanted to bolt. Wanted to run away, wanted to avoid the gaze of the numb look of his lover. Shed all of his problems like bulky clothes. Run away, and never look back. So what if he won’t find love again? He’s lived most of his life without being loved, he’ll make it.

But he sat there, teeth gnawing on his lower lip until his mouth was flooded with the copper taste of blood. Ian was at his lowest—he was defeated, bloody, battered by his own mind. Mickey knew what it was like to have your own brain torment you, your skin be peppered by wounds that only you could see because those wounds weren’t the physical kind.

And he loved the man with all his heart. He knew that if he ran away from love, he would miss the presence of it by his side, and he would hate himself even more. So he stayed. Because sympathy and love were what anchored him, glued him to the ground that he was on.

He didn’t know he would be back at the clinic, but he was there, nervous as ever; like it was his first time, stepping through a portal in a dimension that made no sense and was confusing and frustrating. He stepped out of the dimension for a while, and then was pushed back in, but he felt like it was home.

“Ian Gallagher?” the doctor called, and the duo stood up, walking towards the narrow hallway of the doctor’s room. Everything was eerily quiet and so fucking white. Mickey has never liked white; it was too blank, too bare, too empty. And now he was surrounded by it.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked as the duo sat down. She was a petite woman in her mid-forties, smiling gently at the redhead. She was the same doctor Mickey saw months ago; the day when Ian had last hallucinated. Mickey’s mouth wasn’t working, refused to open, as if it had a mind of its own. Then again, it was a good thing. If his jaw chose to open, words would fly out; words that would dance in the air between the three, running away from Mickey’s fingers when he tried to retrieve it from the air and put them back in his mouth.

“Better,” Ian admitted with a smile to match the doctor’s. “More.. balanced.”

“You don’t feel manic or depressed?”

“No.”

The doctor switched her focus to Mickey, who was staring at the side profile of his boyfriend, trying to commit every freckle and every curve and dip to memory, keep them like treasures, locked up in a chest where only he could open up and admire them again. Mickey reluctantly tore his eyes away from the redhead, looking into the doctor’s way too kind face. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Violent mood swings? Refusal to get out of bed?”

“No.” Mickey wanted to say so much more; how Ian was going back into school, how he passed his GED and actually be a fucking productive member in society, how doing mundane tasks like getting out of bed made Mickey’s heart swell up in his chest and made pride buzz right under his skin. But the words were still bubbling in his stomach.

“What about his sexuality?” Mickey squirmed in his seat a bit. Her soft eyes were fixated on him, on his demeanor. A small part of him—the part still tainted by Terry and his past, like an infected piece of meat—wanted to swear at her for assuming that he would even _know_ about Ian’s sex life because he wasn’t like that, but the bigger part—the one that grew and stretched with Mickey; like a bone in a growing body—of him shut his tainted part up.

“He wasn’t as, uh.. horny as before,” Mickey answered, eyes darting from one place to another. Mickey was telling the truth; he wasn’t as hypersexual as before but they had been doing a lot of fucking these past few days. Mickey couldn’t get enough of the creamy, soft skin under the clothes, the stringy fingers dancing across his skin as soft lips painted kisses all over his neck.

He stayed quiet as the doctor gave her prescription for a refill on ‘Lithium, Prozac, mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics’ and talked about how many times Ian had to take his medication; everything they had heard before. His whole body was itching to leave, leave the white walls and the friendly faces and the broken brains and body. But this time, he wanted to leave with Ian.

So when they did walk out, it took everything in Mickey not to sprint away. They walked in silence. Mickey’s muscles were tense and—as if they were programmed to do so—his fingers found the Marlboro packet stuffed in his pocket, taking it out. “Ay. Want one?”

“Yeah,” his boyfriend nodded, and held his hand out for a stick. The dark-haired man placed a cigarette between his fingers before taking another one out and placing it between his own pair of lips. “Been a while since we’ve been at the clinic together, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mickey repeated and lit the redhead’s boyfriend’s cigarette before lighting his own. “I’m fuckin’ proud of you, man.”

“Why?”

“For actually taking the meds,” Mickey admitted, “getting your shit together. Or.. starting to.” Both men were engulfed in silence when they walked to the store to get Ian’s medication. Ian’s head blank as paper and Mickey’s head a pool of thoughts he didn’t want to swim in.

_“We encourage you to make a list of people to call if you feel like you might hurt yourself,” the doctor had said, writing down a prescription. Both men looked at the petite woman in bewilderment and surprise._

_“Like a suicide list?” Mickey questioned, his heart thumping erratically inside him. Ian couldn’t commit suicide. Mickey can’t go through losing someone else again because of suicide. He barely forgave himself for not saving his mother, he didn’t know what he’d do if Ian killed himself._

_“The meds are supposed to work, why would I need a suicide list?” the redhead questioned._

_“You don’t,” Mickey said to his boyfriend, “he’s got me.”_

“You, uh..” Mickey took a long drag, buying him time to squish all of his words into a question. “You ever got around to makin’ that suicide list she told you to do?” His words were flown out with a plume of smoke, as if they were being carried away by the smoke, far away from the duo.

“No,” his boyfriend answered. “I mean, I would have one person on there. Not that much of a list.” He exhaled the smoke.

“I’m sure you can turn to more than one person if you wanna kill yourself, Red,” the dark-haired man pointed out.

“Yeah, but everyone would guilt trip me into not doing it,” Ian answered. “I don’t want to be guilt tripped into staying in a place I don’t wanna stay in, y’know? It’s selfish for them, and most of them aren’t even there for me.”

“So this one person would be able to convince you to stay here without guilt tripping you?” the dark-haired man answered.

“Yeah, you would,” Ian answered. His brain groaned and complained when Mickey turned the gears inside it, the gears letting out an ugly moaning sound that filled his ears. The only person on that list would be _Mickey._ Ian trusted Mickey to save him that much.

“I didn’t stop you from fucking.. burning your hand,” Mickey mumbled, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.

“Because you didn’t know,” his boyfriend countered. “You would’ve stopped me if you _did_ know.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say. He was blown away by the ample amount of trust Ian had in him. The trust settled around his shoulders, making Mickey’s body its home. But it didn’t weigh him down, like he expected it to. “I still think it was fuckin’ stupid to burn your hand.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You’re never gonna stop telling me that, are you?”

“You’re fucking right I won’t.”

 

****************

“Did she leave a suicide letter?” his boyfriend asked. The duo were naked and sucking on the same cigarette, back in the Milkovich household. Svetlana had convinced Mickey and Ian to come back, promised that she'll try to warm up to the redhead again. Mickey didn't believe her. Ian, however, did; he gave her the benefit of the doubt. So far, everything was okay. For now.

Mickey was deliciously sore; not only in his ass, but everywhere. He had thought that the mention of his mother would’ve dampened his post sex high, weighing it down like how water weighs down a sponge, makes it heavy.

“Yeah.”

“Did the others see the letter?” Ian inquired.

“No.” The redhead turned to look at his boyfriend, who was staring at his fingers and the cigarette wedged between the index and middle finger.

“Can I see it? I mean, you don’t have too, but..” his voice tapered off, but before Ian could finish what he was saying, Mickey got up, ground his cigarette into the ashtray, and got the yellowing paper from its hiding place. He couldn’t remember the last time he took it out and stared at the part that was dedicated to him and him only.

_“My Mikhailo. I hope you grow up to love yourself and be who you are.”_

The redhead’s eyes shifted from left to right as he read the letter, eyebrows drawn together when he got to Mickey’s part. “She knew?”

“I don’t fucking know how she did, but she knew.”

“That’s why you kept it from the others?”

“Obviously. Didn’t fuckin’ know how they’d react. I was mad for her assuming that I was gay, even though I was.” He sat back on the bed. The redhead nodded, and placed the letter beside him, being careful not to crumple it up—like that piece of paper was the most valuable thing to him, like a gem that he had searched for year after year.

“You wanna move out of here?” Ian questioned after a long pause. “Just.. leave everything behind. Turn over a new leaf, or whatever fucking saying that is.”

“Where do we go?” Mickey questioned. “How would we afford to get a place?”

“We’ll save up,” his boyfriend assured him. “I’ll look for apartments or some shit, away from this state. Maybe we’ll have to live in hotels for a while, but it’ll be a short while. You and I have okay jobs. We’ll be fine.”

Mickey mulled it over. There was nothing here for him in Chicago. Yeah, there might not be anything in any other state for him, but he would like to leave; start over, with Ian, build a future with his own hands, with Ian. Build a strong future, brick by brick, with the redhead.

“Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAA this fic is almost over!! 
> 
> i'd like to thank everyone who went through this journey with me and left kudos and comments while i (tried to) give the boys a better ending than the show did. i'm glad that i got annoyed with how things were going on in the show, and decided to make an AU where they're together. 
> 
> a huge, HUGE thank you to my mickey for always giving me prompts when i have no prompts myself! without you, i wouldn't be able to finish this fic!
> 
> i will be making one shots of their future together when i'm finished with another WIP that's almost done. the one shots will either be figments of my imagination or prompts that you guys want me to write. 
> 
> \- Gaylagher


	24. 6x12 - Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this starts off with a greek myth (which relates to the title, guys, it's not just a random fact i threw in just because i wanted to).
> 
> thetis was a sea nymph, or, according to some myths, one of the 50 daughters of the sea god Nereus and Doris.
> 
> Prometheus was one of the Titans (the Titans were deities in greek mythology that came before the olympians).
> 
> enjoy!

_Ian’s history teacher used to love Greek mythology, used to talk about it every chance he got. Most of them flew past Ian’s head, as if his teacher’s mouth was a cannon, the words were cannonballs and the cannonballs weren’t destined to land on Ian’s head._

_One did, though._

_Prometheus—a random dude who was a Titan in Greek mythology—had warned Zeus and Poseidon (who were both in love with a sea nymph named Thetis) of a prophecy that said the son of Thetis would be greater than his father, so neither gods married Thetis._

_Thetis married another man, who she had a child with. The child’s name was Achilles. When Thetis had given birth to Achilles she had decided to make him immortal by dipping him into the sacred waters of Styx, holding him by his left heel. She didn’t realize that since his left heel hadn’t touched the waters, which meant that he would remain mortal._

_Ian had found out that Achilles had died because some fucktard had shot his left heel. The irony of it all._

_“It makes no sense!” Ian exclaimed one day to his older brother—who didn’t give a shit. “He was supposed to be_ immortal _but he had one weakness and it killed him! That’s so unfair!”_

_“I don’t remember wanting to learn about this,” Lip reminded the redheaded boy. “It’s just a stupid myth anyways, it’s not like this Achilles dude was real. Some of the myths are incredibly farfetched. You know why we call our galaxy the ‘Milky Way’? Yeah, it’s because Hera spilt her breast milk and those droplets of breast milk made this galaxy. See? Farfetched.”_

Ian had forgotten how frustrating it was to pack. He had so much shit to cram into one tiny place, and it annoyed him to no end when he had to take out articles of clothes or rearrange them so they would fit. Irritation climbed up his back, sat on his shoulders and threaded its tendrils through his red hair.

“Fucking hell,” Ian sighed when his bag wouldn’t close, and the _creak_ of the door distracted him from the annoyance perched on his shoulders. His older sister was standing at the doorway, watching the redhead.

“So you’re leaving tomorrow?” she questioned.

“Yeah,” Ian answered with a small smile. He still had mixed feelings about leaving the home he grew up in, the town that he grew up in, to venture out into the real world. His bubble was so small and he was fearful of popping it to leave its boundaries. However, he was excited—excited that he could travel, like he’s always wanted to. Yes, his bubble contained everything that he was familiar with, but familiar can get boring and your bubble can suffocate you. Besides, he was taking a piece of home with him.

That piece had raven hair and sapphire eyes and tattooed fingers that spelled out something threatening but only painted Ian’s skin with soft touches and not bruises and blood.

They had pooled up money from their jobs for months. Scraping together to buy a car, then to afford a small apartment in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and saved up extra money in case they need it. And now they were ready to build their future together. The future seemed scary and so fucking wide and full of possibilities, but he wasn’t someone who ever backed down from a challenge—whether it be coming to terms with himself, to have the boy he loves to come to terms about himself, or whether it be his mental illness.

“I’m gonna miss ya,” his older sister admitted, her eyes glossed over.

 _Ah, fuck._ Ian knew that she would get emotional—he was hoping that she wouldn’t get emotional in front of him. It made everything harder than it needed to be. Besides, he was going to visit, see them from time to time.

“I’ll call,” the redhead promised, “and text whenever I can.” His annoyance washed away to guilt, but he swallowed it down, the guilt traveling down his body like a chunk of food that barely fit his gullet.

“You better,” she said, “don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah, I know,” the redhead responded.

“Is there anything I can do?” the brunette questioned.

“Help me with packing,” Ian answered, huffing in exasperation.

 

****************

_“Please, not The Notebook again,” Ian pleaded, watching his best friend turn on the TV. They were sitting on the shitty couch in the Milkovich household. The house was empty, save the duo sitting on the couch. It was opposite of the Gallagher house; where it was packed with people. No one wanted to stay in the Milkovich house for too long. Ian didn’t blame them._

_“You’re gay, you’re supposed to like chick flicks,” his best friend retorted. Ian wanted to roll his eyes and tell her that not all gay men liked chick flicks and shopping, but he saw the small smile tugging at her lips and shoved her lightly._

_“Shut up,” the redhead laughed._

_“Why couldn’t you be more flamboyant?” Mandy questioned before sighing dramatically and resting her head on her best friend’s chest. Ian would’ve preferred Mickey Milkovich curling up to him, holding his hand, and talking about nothing and everything simultaneously. He wanted to be connected to the dark-haired boy. Most of all he wanted Mickey to feel the way he felt about him._

_“Sorry not all gay men are,” Ian raised an eyebrow at his best friend._

_“Apology accepted,” she joked. “Tell me about this boy that you have a crush on.”_

“You want pizza or Chinese?” the same voice inquired.

“Uh.. Chinese,” the redhead answered. The duo were at Mandy’s apartment, tucked away from the world, the same world that did everything it could to make their lives worse. But they maneuvered through it together, and they were close to the light, close to building themselves back up when life knocked them down like a wrecking ball to a wall of bricks.

“So you’re leaving?” Mandy questioned.

“I’m going to Fort Wayne, it’s not that far from here,” the redhead explained. He was going to miss a lot of people; the most was Mandy. Mandy was his only friend, the only person who understood him. She watched him grow from a closeted, driven boy, to a man that was out and still climbing out of the pit he had fallen into. Ian watched her grow from a feeble plant to a tree with roots that kept her sturdy.

She was the only friend Ian needed. Yes, he knew that she’d be able to visit more often than his family members would, but every time she’d leave, she’d take a piece of him with her.

“And Mickey agreed?” his best friend questioned while dialing the number.

“He did.” Ian knew Mickey wouldn’t chicken out—he’d do anything the redhead asked him to. If Ian changed his mind and wanted to stay, Mickey would grumble about it but he’d stay, with Ian. He watched as his best friend ordered what they wanted to eat—without asking Ian because _obviously_ she’d know what he’d want to eat—and hang up.

“How do I know that the both of you won’t rip each other’s throats out?” Mandy joked.

“You don’t,” the redhead grinned. Deep, deep down, they both knew that Ian and Mickey grew; like bones in a growing body, stretching and becoming stronger. Long gone were boys who answered problems with fists, they used words instead. Even though they had a lot to work on, they were on the right pathway that they paved by themselves.

They spent the rest of their night watching reruns and eating until their stomachs threatened to explode inside them. Ian had locked the memory in a special part of him, cherishing it like it was a diamond. Cherishing Chicago like it was a diamond. When Mandy had fallen asleep on top of the redhead, he held his best friend a bit tighter, as if it was the last time he was seeing her.

_“Where would you go if you had a choice?” the redhead inquired as Mandy was painting her nails. The potent odour of nail polish filled the room, making Ian’s nose crinkle up and his lungs recoil from the tainted air he was breathing in, shriveling up to almost nothing._

_“Don’t really care,” Mandy answered, “just anywhere out of here.”_

_“You hate Southside that much?” the redhead inquired, looking at his best friend, who was focused on her toenails._

_“Course I do,” she responded, “what’s it ever done for me? It’s put me in a shitty household with shitty parents, and with almost no money. I’d like to put this town behind me. There’s nothing for me here.” There was silence as Mandy’s gaze became harder on her toenails, eyebrows drawn together. “What about you?”_

_“I’d go outside of America,” Ian answered. “Somewhere in Europe or some shit. Maybe I’ll be able to when I enlist. There are a bunch of bases in Europe.”_

_“Maybe we’ll both be able to put this shitty place behind,” Mandy said softly._

_“Maybe.”_

The next morning, when Ian had grabbed his stuff after saying goodbye to his best friend, he peered at his old room. All of the memories hit him like stones, scarring his skin; some even ripping the tender flesh for crimson blood to ooze out. As he walked downstairs more stones were thrown at him, each one harder than the last. He was leaving his hometown behind, running away from it as he made another home.

He expected to be sad—to cry, even. But the sadness didn’t wash over him, or knock him off of his feet. It didn’t punch his chest and rupture his heart. The sadness was absent.

His past was set in stone, and his present was being carved into the stone. But his future, his future was yet to be written down. He didn’t want to be in a place where he never felt at home. He wanted to create a home out of his own hands with the love of his life, and he wanted to write his own future. Because he couldn’t control who his parents were, or how he was raised. He couldn’t control inheriting Monica’s bipolar disorder. What he could control, was how he wanted his past and present to affect his future, and who he wanted to spend his future with.

As he said his goodbyes and sat in the truck the pair paid for, he almost felt himself lowering his knife into the stone and starting to carve pieces of it out. “Ready?” his boyfriend questioned.

Ian nodded. “Let’s ride.” And as they drove away, Ian thought about Achilles and how his little weakness made him mortal and caused his death. How, as aggravating as it was, it made sense. Everyone had a weakness; whether they were human beings or deities. It was apparent, on our skin, like a tattoo imprinted onto us.

As the whipping wind tousled red locks, he turned over to his boyfriend, who had one hand on the steering wheel and the other one perched on the window beside him. Mickey glanced over at the redhead, a small smile tugging on his lips. “The fuck you lookin’ at?” he inquired, but there was no snarl or sneer that was fixated on Mickey Milkovich. It was melted away to oblivion, the shield that protected the boy from everyone. Instead, Mickey’s softness shone through the melted shield.

Ian didn’t answer audibly, but just with a smirk. He had his own weakness, which wasn’t part of his body. His weakness was a man with hair the colour of soot, sapphire eyes that were hard as ice around everyone else but soft as lukewarm water when they were in their own world.

He had his own Achilles Heel, which was Mickey Milkovich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the myth about our galaxy being created by a couple of breastmilk droplets is actually a real myth out there. 
> 
> anyways (i know i said this last chapter) but thank you guys SO much for reading my fic!! words can't explain how thankful i am for every comment, kudos and hit that this fic has received! a special thank you to my mickey for helping me when i had writers block!! i hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this!
> 
> \- Gaylagher


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